Inequity
by Melissa Rivers
Summary: A telephone call brings Sara face to face with her demons
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: Inequity   
AUTHOR: Melissa Rivers  
EMAIL: missy@lexicon.net  
WEBSITE: http://www.geocities.com/missyliannem/csi/html  
CATEGORY: Tag to Too Tough To Die (Season 1)  
SPOILERS: Major spoilers for Too Tough To Die (Season 1)  
RATING: PG13  
SUMMARY: A telephone call brings Sara face to face with her demons.  
STATUS: WIP  
ARCHIVING: CSI Fanfic Archive; Otherwise, not without permission.  
DISCLAIMER:  
CSI:Crime Scene Investigation and its characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Alliance  
Atlantis & CBS Production Company. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and  
no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended.   
AUTHOR NOTES:  
This story was well on the way to being finished when CBS changed their website and provided  
background profiles for the characters, negating what I had envisaged for the story. Actually, it  
pretty much shot a lot of the story out of the sky. So, I have adapted my original idea and let my  
muse guide me. I would never have imagined the story would go in the direction it did and I hope  
you enjoy it. I have also created a couple of places to suit my needs. Have no idea if there is  
anything like it in Vegas and if not, please consider it literary licence. :)  
FEEDBACK: On or off-list is fine, but please let me know what you think. If there are any glaring  
errors, please let me know as I'd like to correct any before it is put on my website.  
  
  
  
Intricately woven wrought iron gates guarded the entrance, their immense size overshadowing the  
approaching dark Tahoe. As the vehicle entered the driveway, the heavy gates slowly opened. Sara  
drove the SUV between the twin red brick pillars supporting the gates. Two silver lions were crouched  
on the top of each pillar, stone sentinels silently watching.   
  
Sara slowly drove the Tahoe along the sweeping drive, tyres crunching over the pebbled surface. Trees  
lined the driveway, their leafy branches snaking out and twisting as they met their neighbour, entwining to  
form a leafy canopy. Early morning mist wove its way hauntingly through the branches, the air cool and  
damp. A large, rectangular building rose majestically above the broad expanse of lush grass and  
disappeared into the low lying cloud that shrouded the city. A soft fine mist of rain began to fall, giving the  
Haven View Centre an ethereal look.   
  
Parking the SUV in the small visitor's area, Sara noticed that there were only two other cars. She quickly  
put it down to the early hour of the morning rather than the fact that it might be because it was the Haven  
View Centre. When she had admitted to Tom Adler that she knew several people in the centre, it had been  
an extension of the truth. Her knowledge of them was limited to knowing that they went there and the crime  
that had put them there. She hadn't known them before their participation in life was destined to be limited  
to rely on the consistent care of others for their every needs. None of them had impacted the same way  
that Pam had; reminded her so much of the pain she tried so hard to hide from.   
  
Sara felt guilty that she had agreed to visit Pam. It was so far from the truth. All she wanted to do was run  
away and hide, rather than face the ghost of the past. Ever since she had begun working on the case,  
memories had haunted her. They had invaded her consciousness throughout the day and night. It was only  
every now and again that a case would hit the jagged wound that never healed, causing it to fester and  
weep. Pam had brought back memories that she tried to deny existed; memories that threatened to  
overwhelm and destroy.  
  
Most of the time she managed to keep her mind occupied with her job. But then a case like Kaye Shelton  
or Pamela Adler would come along. They disturbed the structured balance, causing fissures to fracture and  
fragment the wall of protection she had built up around herself.   
  
Reluctantly, Sara opened the door. She stepped out into the rain, the cool, fine mist softly falling against  
her skin. It didn't take her long to cover the distance from the parking lot to the building. As she got  
closer, she was surprised by the way the building had been modernised without losing the majestic grace  
of the stately old building.   
  
The glass doors slid back to grant Sara access. She hesitated. She noted the twin cameras recording her  
arrival, both were discretely tucked away high into the alcove protecting the front entrance. Remembering  
the call that had prompted her visit, she resisted the urge to turn away and leave.   
  
Sara moved quietly down the linoleum passageway. Her rubber soled shoes occasionally making a  
squelching noise against the freshly cleaned surface. Her investigative training kicked in and she was  
automatically assessing the remaining scent in the air - the fresh smell of pine.   
  
Stark, white walls were broken by paintings. Some were reprints from well-known artists while others  
were by unknown painters. One, in particular, caught her attention and she stopped, frowning. Sara had  
never seen anything like it. The painter had combined the abstract with the traditional. Bright, aggressive  
dashes of colour filled the outer edges, drawing attention to the painting. The wild, bold and frenetic  
display harboured a deeper secret within its inner sanctum. The pudgy yet delicate fingers of a young child  
linked with that of an adult, lines of maturity and experience blending with wonder and inquisitiveness. Both  
witness to the birth of new life through experience; the explosion of colour and beauty as a butterfly broke  
free from its self-made constraint. Sara looked at the depth of passion that had gone into the painting, the  
butterfly looked as if it would continue to fly, out into freedom.   
  
"That was done by one of our patients, Liam Finch," a soft-spoken voice said behind her.   
  
Sara jumped, caught off-guard. She hadn't heard the approach of the petite, dark-haired nurse. "It's  
impressive," she commented, referring to the painting.  
  
"Yes. He was very good. It's a pity to lose such talent."   
  
"He's dead?"  
  
"No. But he has Alzheimers. He has lost his ability to paint. We encourage our patients to contribute to  
the centre, putting a part of themselves into the place where they live. It's their home." The nurse looked  
towards Sara inquisitively. "Are you here to see someone?"  
  
"Ahh...yeah. Pamela Adler. Her husband said she had been transferred to Haven View."  
  
"Tom's with her at the moment. She's in Room 24. Straight down the hall and the last room on the right."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Sara found the room easily. Once again she hesitated before entering, each step bringing her closer to a  
past she tried desperately to forget.   
  
"Hey. Sara. Hi." Tom's crisp voice broke through her uncertainty.  
  
"Hi Tom."  
  
"The doctor was right. It's a nice place. The staff are lovely and Pam is settling in well."  
  
Sara frowned at his phrase. She took a look at the woman who lay prone in the bed. Pam was shrouded  
beneath sheets and blankets, neatly wrapped. The dark woman's head still bound in bandages, nestled  
in a plump pillow. The nasal canula had been removed. Pam was now breathing on her own with no  
assistance. Yet, other than this single external sign, there was no change from the time Sara had last seen  
her in hospital.   
  
Suddenly, as she looked on, past and present collided. The memories exploded within her as she  
remembered another hospice, another life that had been destroyed through the cruelty of a vicious killer.   
Massive internal and external injuries that had cut short a life that had so much potential, so much desire  
to give. And such a good friend.  
  
"I'm sorry. I can't do this." Sara saw the look on Tom's face and felt guilty at the hurt that she found  
there. Right now, she could not cope with staying, the reality of his situation too close to what she had  
known. She felt the tears well up within her chest, turned sharply on one foot and quickly headed back  
to her car.  
  
The rain was coming down more heavily now. Fat, round drops hit her face, mixing with the salty rivulets  
of pain running down her cheeks. Unlocking the car, she sat in the driver's seat motionless. She did not  
want to go home, but at the same time, she did not want to be with people either. Her refuge, the CSI  
building, was out of the question. Someone was sure to question her presence at this time of the morning.   
In San Francisco, she had a haven; a place where she could go and come away with some degree of  
clarity. But this wasn't San Francisco and she needed a place, something to give her a chance to regain  
her balance.   
  
Gunning the engine, Sara reversed the Tahoe and drove, resolving to find a new place, a new sanctuary  
in which to rebuild her wall.  
  
End Part 1/? 


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2/?  
  
Gil Grissom sat at his desk, fingering the message from Tom Adler. He had already spoken with the him,  
discovering that Sara had visited Pamela Adler at Tom's invitation. The man had been concerned about  
Sara's abrupt departure. Ever since the call had come through, Grissom had tried to contact Sara, both  
on her home telephone number and pager. His calls had all been picked up by her voice mail.   
  
If Tom had been concerned, Grissom was even more so. But he was also angry. Angry that Sara had not  
heeded his advice, had allowed herself to be caught with an emotional attachment to the victim. Past  
experience had proven that this was not wise; the plight of the victims and their families ate away at the  
psyche, shifting the focus of an investigator from the evidence to the moral desire for justice.   
  
Grissom chewed on his bottom lip, watching the phone and wishing that it would ring. Thinking back, he  
regretted not pulling Sara aside and asking more about why this particular case affected her more than  
others. Her enthusiasm for her job was vividly evident, the joy at investigating and solving a crime a  
challenge and delight. In her, he could see pieces of himself. And there was something lurking below the  
surface with this case that he had failed to pinpoint. Her reactions to this particular victim were personal.   
  
Grissom had tried to steer her away from becoming too closely involved. Now, he was angry with himself  
for not having a more serious talk with her. He should not have let her think that he was closed off from  
his victims - far from it. Yet, he had let Sara walk away thinking that he was able to just shut off his  
emotions, whereas it was a matter of control.   
  
"Hey, Gris."  
  
Grissom looked up and found Catherine Willows in the doorway, her hip resting against the door jamb.   
Her head was cocked slightly to the right, her arms crossed as she patiently waited for him to talk to her.  
  
"Oh, hi Cath," he responded absently, giving her a cursory glance.   
  
"What's wrong?" It didn't surprise Catherine that she was going to have to play twenty questions with  
Grissom. He was never one to be forthcoming with information at the best of times and when he did, it  
tended to be cryptic, layered with textured meaning.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You've been playing with that piece of paper, chewing your lip and watching the phone as if it was God's  
answer to all the world's problems for the last minute that I've watched. Probably longer at a guess.   
What's wrong?"  
  
"Here." Grissom waggled the piece of paper in the air in her general direction.  
  
Pushing off from the door jamb, she took the piece of paper and read it. "Tom Adler." Catherine thought  
for a moment. "As in the Jane Doe shot as a gang initiation?"  
  
"That's the one."  
  
"Didn't you wind up the case last week?" Catherine sat down in the chair opposite, crossing her pant-clad  
legs. Placing the message back on his desk, she asked, "Isn't the kid in juvie?"  
  
"Yep." His answer was short, his tone clipped.  
  
"Case over. So, what's the problem?"   
  
"Sara went and visited the victim at the hospice she has been placed in."   
  
Now the other shoe dropped. Grissom was protective of his staff, particularly those that he had personally  
trained. "Why?"  
  
"You tell me and we'll both know. She's become attached to the victim, Cath. I don't know how to get  
through to her."   
  
"Did you try?" The question sounded terrible, even to her own ears, yet she felt it must be asked. Grissom  
had a tendency to avoid these sort of situations.   
  
Grissom gave her a wry look. They both acknowledged his lack of people skills and Catherine would often  
take on the role of mediator in circumstances which required placating ruffled feathers. "Yes, I tried. Did  
I succeed? Obviously not."  
  
"You're going to have to try again." Catherine was well aware that Sara was not one of those people she  
ever succeeded with either. "She's not going to be an easy nut to crack."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"She's like you, Gris. Work is her life. She hides from people behind the facade of work. When you tell  
her to walk away from it, it is like asking her to cut off an essential part of herself. You're the best example  
to her. Tell her how you do it. And don't just tell her you ride roller coasters. It won't cut it with Sara."  
  
"Cath, do you think I don't feel anything?" Grissom voiced the comment that had left him questioning how  
Sara and others viewed him.  
  
"What do you mean?" Catherine leaned forward, resting her forearms on the top of the desk, her arms  
crossed casually  
  
"It's a conversation I had with Sara. She accused me of not feeling anything."  
  
"Then the answer is no; you hide it well though. But then I know you better than most. Gil, you understand  
her more than you think you do. Instead of being her boss, her teacher, talk to her." Catherine pushed  
herself up from the chair and walked to the doorway, stopping when Grissom continued.  
  
"I've been trying to. Tom Adler rang because Sara ran out of the hospice, apparently quite upset. I've  
been unable to get her on her phone or pager. I only get her voice mail." Grissom raised his eyebrows, a  
silent question in his expression asking her to acknowledge that this was highly unusual for Sara.  
  
"Well, she's due to start her shift in twenty-five minutes, so she shouldn't be far away." Catherine placated.   
Until the time Sara was due to start, they could not assume anything.   
  
"Don't you find that strange in itself? The fact that she's not already here?"   
  
"This is Sara we are talking about. I find a lot of the things she does strange," Catherine responded before  
leaving the room.  
  
Gil gave a twisted smile at her retreating figure and wondered what Catherine's assessment of his own  
idiosyncracies were.  
  
End Part 2/? 


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3/?  
  
  
Sara finally found what she had been looking for. The  
old church stood on its own, out in the middle of a dusty  
paddock. The white-washed weatherboard building  
was freshly painted; obviously someone still attended to  
its upkeep. Arched stain-glassed windows faced the dirt  
road and dark, solid oak arched doors protected the  
inner reliquary.   
  
Pulling the SUV to a stop, Sara turned off the engine,  
her hand remaining on the keys as she surveyed the  
scene in front of her. Already, she could feel the rapid  
beating of her heart begin to settle down and the painful,  
thick lump constricting her throat begin to release. This  
scene had some familiarity, provided some connection to  
the sanctuary she had always sought in San Francisco;  
the peacefulness and solitude that enabled her to take  
time to gain perspective.   
  
Hopping out into the rain, she walked past the church,  
heading out beyond the building into the field behind it.   
Old fashioned wrought iron fencing surrounded a large  
area, segregating it from the old church out front yet  
joining all that remained within. Moving slowly through  
the gate, the disused hinges grating loudly in protest,  
Sara walked reverently between the heavy, dark grey  
headstones. She took time to read each obituary to a  
life that was lost to the living; a testimony to love,  
disease, war and life itself. Families torn apart and  
reunited once again in death. Losing herself in the  
images of the past, she allowed time to evaporate.   
  
While the church was well kept, the graveyard was the  
opposite. Each grave was overgrown with weeds.   
Some of the headstones hard to read, the harsh, wild  
weather of time taking a toll on the chiselled stone. Sara  
found herself automatically pulling the tough weeds from  
around each grave as she read the inscription, the rain  
helping the ground release its grip on the roots. The  
tedious work occupied her hands while her mind  
extrapolated life stories from the small snippets of  
information gleaned from the headstone. Time and the  
manual labour dispelled the anxiety that had filled her,  
giving her a chance to do some internal brick-laying  
once again.  
  
  
  
Sara arrived at the CSI building with only ten minutes to  
spare before her shift. Her clothes were still drenched  
and muddy. A miscalculation in the time it would take to  
get back from the cemetery not allowing for her to go  
home, have a shower and change. She was grateful that  
she always kept a spare set of clothing in her locker for  
those days when bodies suddenly expelled unexpected  
foreign material that impregnated the clothes.   
  
Tossing her handbag over her shoulder, Sara went  
directly to the locker room to get her change of clothing,  
avoiding eye contact with anyone who happened to pass  
her along the way. Only Warrick was in the room,  
changing his shirt. He swivelled his head in her direction  
as she entered the room, noting her bedraggled  
appearance.   
  
"What did you do, walk to work?"  
  
Sara had hoped that no one would be in the locker  
room, but she had been prepared for it. She wasn't  
about to tell anyone how she had spent the day.   
  
"Flat tyre. No guy would stop to help," Sara offered  
blandly in explanation as she passed by Warrick to get  
to her own locker. She was grateful that the rain had  
continued to fall or otherwise her lie would not have  
washed with him.   
  
"Do you blame him if you were wearing that expression  
on your face."  
  
"Thanks, Warrick. When you're wet and muddy, let's  
see what expression you wear on your face."   
  
"Actually, I've experienced the wet part and it's rather  
unpleasant. Cheer up, the day can only get better,"  
Warrick remarked, thinking back to his recent  
experience with the pool at Portia Richmond's mansion.   
He gave her a gentle pat on her shoulder for support.   
As he was about to leave the room, he swung around to  
face Sara. "By the way, Grissom was looking for you.   
Said he'd paged you."  
  
Sara frowned. Pulling her pager from her hip, she  
cursed herself inwardly, turning the pager on as she did  
so. She had turned it off before heading into the Haven  
View Centre and had forgotten to turn it back on when  
she had left.   
  
"Unusual for you to miss an opportunity to work,  
particularly with Grissom," Warrick commented, curious  
as to why Sara had not answered her page.  
  
He got no answer. Sara only slammed the door to her  
locker, avoided Warrick's inquisitive gaze as she pushed  
past him and went to get changed. As she left the room,  
Sara almost collided with Nick. He moved sideways,  
out of her way, the moment he witnessed the determined  
look on her face. Nick watched as she strode away,  
purpose in her stride, her head bowed down.  
  
"What's up with Sara? Why is she soaked?"  
  
"Two folded anger - annoyance; whatever you want to  
call it.. She had to change the tyre on her SUV in the  
rain and also missed a page from Grissom. I'd imagine  
she's wondering what wonderful case she missed."   
  
However, Warrick wasn't so sure it was that simple.   
From what little he had gleaned about Sara since she  
had arrived in Las Vegas, he knew she was ambitious  
and intelligent. She expected a high standard from  
those around her, but expected even more so from  
herself. Her interests outside of CSI were nil and she  
has a propensity to do overtime at the drop of a hat.   
For Sara to have turned off her pager there had to be  
something going on. As to what, he had no idea.   
Warrick wasn't even sure he wanted to find out,  
knowing how protective Sara was of her personal life.   
But concern for his colleague had him intrigued enough  
to pursue it further.  
  
"That would drive her crazy. Changed her tyre in the  
rain, huh? What I wouldn't pay to have seen that."  
  
"Man, I don't think you'd want to be close when she  
was changing a tyre. You'd never know what direction  
she'd throw the tyre iron in her current mood."  
  
"True, so true," Nick responded. "Hey, I hope I won't  
be having Miss Sunshine tonight. If I do, I may just  
need to take up Greg's offer of a valium or two."  
  
Warrick laughed as they made their way down to the  
break room cum briefing room. Catherine and Grissom  
were already there, seated at the able. They were in  
deep discussion which stopped as soon as they entered  
the room.   
  
"Have you seen Sara?" Grissom asked as the two men  
walked into the room, gripping his cup of coffee tightly.   
  
"Yeah, Grissom." Warrick confirmed, sitting down on  
the couch. "She's getting changed. She got a flat tyre  
on the way here and ended up having to change it in the  
rain."  
  
Catherine raised her eyebrows. She looked across at  
Grissom and sent him a silent message to tread carefully  
and not make any assumptions.   
  
"Really?"   
  
"Okay, here are the assignments. Catherine, a 428.   
Victim is at University Medical Centre."  
  
Catherine sighed as she took the piece of paper. These  
type of cases were not how she liked to start the day.   
  
"Nick - 419. Body was found at Cave Rock."  
  
"On my own? Yes!" Nick responded gleefully.   
  
"No," contradicted Grissom as he handed over the  
assignment. " Sara will be working with you when she  
gets here."  
  
"Damn," Nick muttered under his breath.  
  
"What?" Grissom looked up from the last piece of paper  
in his hand, raising his eyebrows to query Nick's  
obvious displeasure.   
  
"Nothing, Just you haven't had the pleasure of Sara's  
wonderful mood. It's going to be a blast working with  
her." Nick walked out of the room in search of his  
assigned partner, grumbling under his breath about how  
a certain snarky CSI should get a bit more sleep.  
  
Grissom and Catherine exchanged glances. Taking on  
the role of head of the graveyard shift had not been  
Grissom's personal choice and with the current state of  
affairs, he knew why he had never aspired to the  
position.   
  
"Warrick, you're with me. Murder-suicide. Sunrise  
Manor."   
  
Catherine gave Grissom a pointed look, obviously  
wanting to say something to him but refraining from  
doing so in front of her colleagues.  
  
"Go ahead, Warrick. I'll be with you in a moment."  
Grissom handed Warrick the assignment sheet, before  
leaning back against the bank of cupboards.   
  
"You're avoiding her already."  
  
"Cath, a murder-suicide is not what she needs to be  
working on right now, particularly not this one." Grissom  
knew a few of the finer details of the case. It wasn't  
simply two people involved in the murder-suicide but an  
entire family. Would Sara cope with it after the pressure  
she had placed herself under on the Pamela Adler case?   
Personally, he didn't want to find out.   
  
"I disagree. It will give you an opening. And if she  
doesn't cope, you'll be there. It'll be safer than sending  
her out with Nick."   
  
"Or do you mean safer for Nick."   
  
"Look Gil, you've got a situation and you've got to do  
something about it. Now, not next week. It might be  
too late by then."  
  
End Part 3/? 


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, someone queried the origins of my English... I'm  
confusing them with the fact my English is using British English  
but my quotation marks usage is American. I'm Australian and  
we have no strict rule either way. Yes, I use British English for  
spelling, but that's just showing my age :) These days, you can  
get either from us Aussies.   
  
Part 4/?  
  
Warrick waited down the hallway for Grissom to finish talking  
with Catherine. Leaning against the wall, he thought about the  
last few days. The balance that normally existed in the team on  
the graveyard shift was off. It all seemed to stem from the  
recent Adler case that Grissom, Nick and Sara had  
investigated. Nick had mentioned how Sara had become  
personally attached to the victim, referring to her as 'Jane'.   
Ever since the investigation was completed, Sara had been  
unusually quiet, her exuberance for the job quelled.   
  
It confused him that she was still maxing out on overtime. Her  
thoroughness for detail was still exemplary. Yet the spark that  
lit her eye at the discovery of a piece of evidence, however  
minute, that would solve a crime had gone. Warrick even  
missed those little annoying habits that she had and her off the  
cuff remarks.   
  
Hearing the familiar footsteps of Grissom coming down the  
hallway, he pushed off the wall, falling into step beside his  
boss.  
  
"Hey, Gris. Can I talk with you?"  
  
Grissom looked across at Warrick, a slight inclination of his  
head indicating for the young CSI to proceed with whatever he  
wished to discuss.  
  
"Ah, somewhere private?"Warrick added tentatively.  
  
They moved through to Grissom's office in silence. Entering the  
office, Grissom dropped the file he was carrying on the desk  
and leaned against it. Warrick closed the door to provide them  
with some privacy.   
  
"What's the problem?" Grissom prompted.  
  
"It's not a problem per se. It's about Sara."  
  
"What about Sara?"Grissom asked, quelling the disturbing  
nervousness he felt as soon as Warrick mentioned her name.   
Only moments before Catherine had been on his case about  
her and now Warrick. He wished that he could just bury  
himself in his lab and run several trials at once. At least he'd  
be able to keep better track of them than he seemed able to  
do with one particular CSI, who seemed to be the subject  
of everyone's concern.   
  
"Something's not right. You know how you said she didn't  
answer her page."   
  
Grissom nodded.  
  
"There was a reason. It was switched off." Warrick, normally  
confident in his discussions with Grissom, found this one  
unnerving. His nervousness showed, his hands alternately  
crossing in front of him to dropping by his side and back again.  
  
Grissom absorbed this fact, now understanding why she hadn't  
returned his call. That had concerned him greatly and for a  
moment he was relieved. But his relief was short-  
lived as he wondered why she had not switched it back on.   
  
"Gris, when would Sara switch off her pager? She's the  
ultimate workaholic in this lab beside you. There hasn't been a  
day in over a month when she hasn't worked and the first  
break she had, we hauled her back in on the Portia Richmond  
case."  
  
"I agree she needs to take some more time away from the  
lab."  
  
"That's not what I'm meaning, Gris." Warrick walked over to  
lean against the desk beside Grissom. "To take Sara away  
from her work would be like taking away part of her soul.   
Something's bothering her and it's changing her. She's not  
talking like she usually does. She's just not being 'Sara', if you  
know what I mean."  
  
Grissom nodded, accepting both Warrick assessment of the  
change in Sara and also Catherine's warning. Both of them  
were good judges of character, much better at it than he was.   
He wasn't going to ignore their advice and risk losing one very  
good CSI because he wasn't willing to take action. "Would  
you start work on the 419 with Nick? Sara will work with me."   
  
"Sure thing. Nick'll be happy."  
  
"It's not being done for Nick's comfort."  
  
"I'm glad." Warrick pushed away from the desk, heading for  
the door.   
  
"Warrick," Grissom called after him. Warrick paused at the  
door, his hand resting on the handle. "Give me a call once  
you've finished at the crime scene. I may need you as well on  
this one."   
  
"Sure thing."   
  
  
  
Grissom checked through his aluminum field kit. He never  
went out to a crime scene without ensuring that every possible  
piece of equipment was there and in working order. It was a  
habit that also gave him a chance to try and work out what he  
was going to say to Sara.   
  
"I heard you're taking Sara with you."   
  
Grissom looked up at Catherine. "What is this place? Gossip  
Central?"  
  
"Well some of us like to be kept informed. Especially when we  
are concerned," Catherine replied tartly.  
  
Grissom gave her a quizzical look. He gave up on trying to  
understand the human psyche. It was much easier to deal with  
the physical evidence of a crime than the changing tide of  
human emotion. "When you've finished with the 428, we'll  
probably need a hand with this one."  
  
"How many?"  
  
"Four. Father and three kids."  
  
  
  
It was easy to find the house that was the subject of the  
murder-suicide. Police cars cordoned off the street. A patrol  
officer waved the black Chevy Tahoe, its lights flashing,  
through to the scene of the crime. Black and yellow crime  
scene tape separated the double storey weatherboard house  
from the others in the street. Long grass bent over under the  
onslaught of un-seasonal rainfall. The garden beds were a  
mixture of plant and weed. Even in the rain, onlookers littered  
the sidewalk, cowering beneath a sea of umbrellas. Curiosity  
combined with shock were mirrored in their faces at the  
rumoured nature of the crime.   
  
Grissom looked across at Sara as she parked the Tahoe. She  
had been silent on the drive over to the crime scene, none of  
the usual effervescent enthusiasm for the investigation evident.   
Her hair hung in damp curls around her face. Eyes glazed with  
tiredness were surveying the crime scene. Noting the dark hue  
of blue under her eyes, fatigue seemed to scream at him from  
her very core.   
  
Used to her unusual sleeping habits, her quest for another  
challenge insatiable, Grissom had allowed Sara to make the  
maximum use of her overtime. It benefitted not only the CSI  
lab when they were short-handed, but also kept her active  
mind occupied. Looking across at her now, and with the  
telephone call from Tom Adler playing on his mind, he wasn't  
so sure. Maybe he did need to watch her a little more closely,  
curb her habit for excessive overtime and enforce a break from  
their psychologically demanding job.   
  
Following Cath's advice and taking Sara under his proverbial  
wing, Grissom had been relying on Sara to ask about his page.   
Yet Sara hadn't uttered a single word other than an off-hand  
greeting. Not a word; not even a question about the missing  
page. Consequently, he had found it impossible to begin  
speaking to her at all during their time together in the SUV  
without making the next few hours an awkward investigation.   
Grissom needed her focused on the work at hand, not dwelling  
on an exchange that benefitted no one at this time.   
  
Brass came up to the Tahoe, breaking Grissom's deep  
thoughts.. "Here's what I have so far. Teenage boyfriend of  
the eldest daughter came to pick her up for a junior high  
dance. No one answered the door. He went out back and  
found the son lying dead on the porch. He then called the  
police on his cell phone."  
  
"He didn't enter the house?"   
  
"No. He was adamant about that." Brass nodded towards the  
teenager standing between two officers, nervously switching  
feet as he looked on at the scene unfolding before him. "First  
officers on the scene found husband dead in the study, a 9mm  
semi-automatic pistol by his side. Two daughters, both killed  
in an upstairs bedroom, gunshot wounds to the head. Son was  
killed out on the porch. Three shots to the torso. Looks like  
he was trying to escape."  
  
Brass leaned down to glance into the Tahoe. "It's only the two  
of you?"  
  
"For now," Grissom replied. "Catherine will be over once  
she's finished with a 428."  
  
"Any note?" Sara asked.  
  
"No. Not that we've found on a cursory check. Naturally,  
we've been waiting for you guys and the Coroner to arrive."  
  
"Brass, are your men taking photographs of the crowd?"  
  
"What for? It's a murder-suicide."  
  
Grissom gave him a pointed look. "Apparent murder-suicide."  
  
"Yeah. Right," Brass acknowledged grudgingly, feeling it was  
a waste of resources. He'd been inside the house. It was  
obviously a murder-suicide. It had the hallmark signatures of  
such a crime.   
  
"Sara. You ready?"  
  
She nodded and hopped out of the vehicle. Opening the rear  
hatch, Grissom and Sara donned blue coveralls with  
'Forensics' stencilled on the back. They slipped booties over  
their shoes to prevent contamination of the crime scene.   
Taking their field kits, they proceeded to begin their  
investigation, which had begun the moment they arrived. Both  
Grissom and Sara had been visually casing the scene,  
observing the onlookers and other details that the casual  
viewer might consider inconsequential.   
  
End Part 4/? 


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5/?  
  
Sara followed Grissom up the concrete path that led up to  
the front door of the house. Both carried their field kits; Sara  
also had a camera casually slung over her shoulder. She  
noted the lights on in one of the upper rooms, a sliver of light  
escaping between drawn curtains. Looking across the lawn,  
the grass saturated under the day's continual rain, she slowly  
panned her powerful Maglite over the surface, searching for  
signs of footprints or other evidence of the killer. The wet  
weather was doing its best to wash away any evidence  
outside the house.   
  
"Damn, we're losing evidence."  
  
"Sara, focus." Grissom directed as he also ran his flashlight  
over the surrounding lawn in the opposite direction to that of  
Sara.   
  
Sara pulled herself upright, bristling under his demand. Her  
experienced eye caught signs of disturbance in the long grass.   
A small shrub in the garden bed also seemed to have some  
broken branches. "There's something over there."   
  
Grissom came up beside Sara, shining his own torch alongside  
the beam cast by hers, the two mixing to become one as they  
focused on the possible trail of evidence.   
  
"Brass, did the kid walk this way to get to the back of the  
house? Any of your officers?" Grissom asked, running his  
Maglite over the disturbed area. Both were likely sources of  
the obvious tracks.   
  
"Not that I'm aware but I'll find out."  
  
"If any did, I want to speak with them. I'll need their prints."  
  
"Footprints?"   
  
"Naturally. The paramedics and police officers' fingerprints  
will already be on the database. I'll need the kid's fingerprints  
as well; for elimination or otherwise."  
  
"Grissom, you don't seriously think the kid did this?"  
  
"I don't think anything at this stage. The evidence will speak  
for itself." Grissom put down his case and opened it. "Sara,  
photograph the scene while I see if I can get a decent cast off  
a print. I'll second your sentiment; the rain is going to hamper  
our efforts."   
  
Working diligently, Sara photographed each area of trampled  
grass and dirt. Time was of essence at this point, but so was  
accuracy. Without jeopardising the validity of the evidence,  
Sara and Grissom had the scene canvassed and had the  
evidence collected in the least amount of time.   
  
As they packed the evidence collected from outside the house  
into the back of the Tahoe, the rain finally stopped. They  
both stripped off their wet gloves and paper booties, dropping  
them into a garbage bag in the back of the vehicle for disposal  
later.  
  
"Talk about timing. Who have I ticked off today?" Sara  
grumbled under her breath, brushing the beads of rain from  
her forehead. Digging deep into her pocket, she pulled out a  
black hair elastic band . She pulled the wet, heavy strands  
away from her face and tied it back at the nape of her neck.  
  
Grissom chose to ignore her rhetorical question, despite the  
fact that he would certainly qualify to be on that particular list.   
Remembering his resolve to not distract Sara from the scene  
through a discussion, he avoided the opening she had  
provided him with. Sara was obviously running on adrenalin  
alone  
  
"Now for inside," Grissom said, slipping on a new set of  
paper booties and latex gloves. "I want to walk through first  
before we begin processing the scene. Sara, photograph as  
much as you can." Sara nodded in acknowledgement, slinging  
the camera and its case once again over her shoulder. "I'll  
take my own notes."   
  
Grissom turned around, searching the perimeter of the crime  
scene for Jim Brass. He signalled to Brass, indicating that he  
wanted to talk to him. The homicide detective casually made  
his way over to his CSO successor. "We're going to begin  
inside. How many have been through?" Grissom asked,  
gesturing towards the police officers.  
  
"Paramedics and a couple of police officers."  
  
"Did they touch anything?" Grissom asked. The three of  
them once again walked up the path towards the house. This  
time they would go inside and see what devastation had been  
wreaked upon the family within.  
  
"What do you think?" Brass responded, sarcasm attached to  
each word. While he had worked as the head of the  
graveyard shift for the CSI unit and had a special affiliation  
with the night shift, he still was a cop and his allegiance to  
them shone through.  
  
"It's not what I think that matters. Find out."   
  
"I've already asked," Brass replied. "Paramedics went  
through and found all victims dead. Each had sustained   
massive blood loss. They checked all the rooms because they  
wanted to make sure there were no further victims."  
  
"And the boy still insists he didn't enter the house?" Grissom  
still found this hard to believe.   
  
"Yeah. He's adamant that he rang 911 right after he found  
the boy out back."  
  
"What's your feeling?"  
  
"He's hiding something."  
  
"Arrange for one of your officers to take him back to the  
Criminalistics Bureau. Mandy will take his fingerprints.   
  
The double entrance doors were partially open, leading into  
a hallway bathed in a gentle yellow light from two small wall  
lamps. Despite this fact both Grissom and Sara had their  
flashlights in their hands. The hallway showed no sign of any  
disturbance. Beside a vase of flowers set on top of a  
mahogany bureau were several unopened letters. Grissom  
noted that an elastic band still held them in a bundle.   
  
They both put down their field kits to the left of the open  
doors, out of the path of their investigation. Cream single  
loop twist pile carpet covered the hallway floor, extending into  
each of the rooms and up the stairs. It was hard to miss the  
incomplete, muddy footprints that stained the otherwise  
pristine carpet. Grissom bent down and looked more closely  
at the footprints.  
  
"Sara, what do you make of these?" Grissom asked Sara as  
she photographed the prints, his flashlight lit over one of the  
footprints.   
  
"Single track prints," Sara commented, crouching down  
beside him to look more closely at the trail. "Coming from the  
stairs to this room to the left." Sara ran her own flashlight  
along the clearly marked trail.  
  
"It's the study," Brass informed them.  
  
Narrowing her eyes, she took a closer look at the print  
Grissom had highlighted. "Mud and... is that blood?" She  
cocked her head to the side and turned to look across at  
Grissom, seeking his affirmation.  
  
An almost imperceptible nod acknowledged her question and  
confirmed the answer. Grissom placed the square rule beside  
the print. "Size 8," he stated as Sara took another, closer  
shot of the footprint.  
  
"Small for a man, large for a woman," Sara pointed out.  
  
"Exactly." Grissom gave a knowing smile.  
  
"You know something I don't, Grissom?"   
  
"I'll wait for the evidence to speak for itself."  
  
Sara shook her head and rubbed at her right temple, her  
fingers trying to massage away the telltale signs of a headache.   
Grissom's cryptic words were not helping either. She should  
be used to this by now, but he still managed to get her  
frustrated by his lack of projecting.  
  
"Follow the trail up the stairs or into the study?" Sara asked  
tiredly, pushing herself upright.  
  
"Study first."   
  
The trail stopped at the doorway of the study. Sara continued  
to photograph the scene and followed Grissom into the room.   
She absorbed the atmosphere. The room was lit by a single  
desktop lamp. A coppery smell still filled the air, mixing with  
the distinctive odour of nicotine. An ashtray, filled with  
several cigarette butts, sat to the right hand side of the  
intricately carved rosewood desk. The highly polished  
surface marred by the head lying face down on it, blood  
seeping into the large, white blotting paper under it..   
  
Grissom approached the body, noting the gunshot wound to  
the head. "Male. Caucasian, approximately forty years. One  
perforating gunshot wound to the right temple. Exit wound  
behind the left ear. Bevelling and burn marks indicate close  
proximity of the gun to the skull at point of impact."  
  
"So the trail of footprints to the doorway were not those of  
the person who fired the shot," Sara asserted as she finished  
another roll of film.   
  
"Unlikely," Grissom agreed. "Not unless the murderer took  
his shoes off, which I would highly doubt occurred."   
  
"Killer? You don't think this was a murder-suicide."  
  
"Never judge a book by it's cover. Acquaint yourself with  
the crime scene, Sara. Don't let other opinions cloud your  
judgement."  
  
As Sara changed the film, she looked around the room. A  
mahogany leather seat occupied the wall behind her, below an  
original painting. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the wall  
to her left. Scanning the titles, she noted the diversity in their  
content. It was then that the methodical placement of the  
books struck her. Not by title or author or even size.   
"Colour. The books are sorted by colour," she murmured  
softly, running her flashlight over the bookshelf. "Except for  
one section."   
  
"And the importance of this fact?" Brass asked, a couple of  
steps behind her.  
  
"Probably nothing," Sara responded. "It might be indicative  
of an obsessive tendency." The last section was unruly in  
comparison to the rest of the bookshelf. The titles were all  
related to psychology and psychiatry. A combination of  
medical texts and expositions on specific psychological  
conditions.   
  
As she ran her flashlight over the spines, a glint of metal  
flashed. Crouching down to take a closer look, Sara  
narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips as she realised what it  
was. "I've located the slug. It looks like a 9 millimetre."  
  
"Photograph the evidence. We're on a walk through,"  
Grissom reminded her.   
  
"There's a 9mm Luger in his hand," Brass commented,  
indicating to the handgun still grasped in the man's right hand  
slumped by his side.  
  
Grissom noted size of the entrance wound and exit. "Injury  
is consistent with a handgun. Estimate would be in the range  
of a 9mm, but I'll wait for confirmation from the autopsy."   
Moving around the other side of the desk, Grissom got on his  
hands and knees acquainting himself with the scene below the  
victim.   
  
"What're you looking for?" asked Sara.   
  
Silence. Sara waited patiently rather than asking the question  
twice. Previous experience had told her that if he didn't  
respond initially, he would, given time.   
  
Brass sidled up beside Sara, a questioning look on his face.   
"What's he up to?"   
  
"Not sure."  
  
Minutes seemed to tick over slowly. Sara and Brass hunched  
down on their haunches to see if they could work out what  
Grissom was doing, but they only got a better view of his  
broad back.   
  
"Shoe size is an eleven," Grissom commented as he crawled  
out of under the desk. "No blood spatter on the top of his  
shoes. Underneath, there's traces of blood in the tread."  
  
"There were no tread marks on the carpet in this room," Sara  
commented, her brow furrowing in confusion as she swung  
her flashlight over the carpeted floor. Following a path from  
the doorway to the desk, there were no overt signs of  
footprints, unlike what was in the hallway.   
  
"The residual blood is within the tread."  
  
"But for blood to get within the tread, there would have to  
have been blood on the tread itself."  
  
Grissom didn't answer. He raised his eyebrows slightly and  
inclined his head towards the hallway. Sara pursed her lips,  
acknowledged his silent instruction and followed him out of  
the room.   
  
"This is a mess," Sara commented as she changed the roll of  
film in the camera again to begin photographing the trail of  
footprints that marred the carpeted staircase. At least four to  
five different sets had left their mark, overlapping and  
intermingling, almost ruining the chance of getting clear prints.   
  
  
"Just photograph the evidence. We'll worry about the  
contamination later," Grissom said quietly, knowing that she  
was referring to the additional prints having been left by either  
police officers and paramedics.  
  
They worked their way slowly up the stairs, avoiding touching  
or interfering with any possible evidence. Photographs of the  
family decorated the wall at various intervals. At the top of  
the staircase, one of the photographs had been dislodged  
from its position, tilted at an angle. Four bloodied fingerprints  
were visible on the wall directly below the picture. Three  
were smudged and unlikely to be of any value. The fourth  
was clearly defined.  
  
"Sara, make sure you get photos of those prints," Grissom  
instructed. He bent down to take a closer look at the  
footprints. Narrowing his eyes, he focussed on the peculiar  
dance one set of the footprints seemed to have done and then  
looked at the fingerprint, evaluating the possible significance  
of the two. After quickly jotting down his observations in his  
own shorthand, he turned around to towards Brass.  
  
"The girls are in the bedroom to the right of the stairs," Brass  
informed them.  
  
The room was not overly large, the walls painted a delicate  
shade of lemon. The lights were on in the room, illuminating  
the atrocity within. To the left of the doorway, blood and  
brain matter coated the top of a small chest of drawers,   
located beside a single, white powder-coated wrought iron  
bed. A child's teddy bear lamp on top of the chest had been  
knocked over, blood also covering its surface and the wall  
behind.  
  
Grissom could just see the soles of a young child's shoes from  
where he was standing in the doorway. One foot in front of  
him, the carpet was soaked with blood, blood that had been  
smeared as if something had been pulled through it. A few  
feet further lay the body of an older girl, probably in her mid  
teens with two bullet wounds.   
  
He held his emotions in check, his face grim. Moving into the  
room, he went to the younger girl first, hunkering down beside  
her. Sara was only a pace behind him, the camera capturing  
his observations in chromatic detail.  
  
"One female caucasian, approximately eight years old. Pool  
of blood surrounding the skull . Body located beside the first  
bed three feet east of the doorway. Body does not appear to  
have been moved. Shot once through the frontal lobe."   
  
Other than Grissom's grisly analysis of the crime scene and  
the sound of the camera shooting, there was silence in the  
room. The act of violence perpetrated against these two girls  
was horrific, particularly the older girl. Moving towards the  
second girl, Grissom began his notations again.  
  
"Second female. Caucasian, approximately sixteen years old.   
Shot twice - once in the chest and one shot to the back of the  
skull. Burn marks indicate close proximity of gun to the  
victim's skull causing massive facial trauma. Drag marks  
indicate that the second female was shot initially one foot  
inside the doorway with the second shot in the middle of the  
room approximately four feet south of the doorway."  
  
"Why do they have to kill the kids?" Sara asked, her voice  
breaking slightly as she asked the question.  
  
"Suicides?" Grissom looked at Sara for confirmation of her  
question. At her nod, he continued, "suicide is a selfish act.   
The belief that it affects no one but themselves is a fallacy that  
makes it easier on the person to commit the act."   
  
As he carried on this conversation with Sara, he frowned as  
he took a closer look at scene and the injuries sustained by  
the two girls once more.   
  
"I still don't understand why they kill their children. Why not  
let them have a chance at life?"  
  
"A person who is capable of taking their own life has the  
capacity to convince themselves that death is a better option  
for their children than life. Although, I'm not sure that's the  
case here. We cannot rule out other causes, particularly in  
light of this evidence," Grissom pointed out.  
  
"Huh?" Sara asked, confused.  
  
"Sara, take another look at this scene." Grissom stood up,  
surveying the scene from Sara's perspective What do you  
see?"  
  
"Two victims. One shot at close range, one at some distance;  
both causing massive internal damage. Blood and bony  
tissue...these injuries weren't caused by that Luger." Sara  
looked across at Grissom, her eyes widening in realisation that  
she had automatically boxed the crime into the murder-suicide  
category that Grissom warned them all not to do. Never  
make assumptions, collect the evidence and let it speak to  
you.  
  
"Right. These are injuries caused by high velocity ammunition.   
Handguns are low velocity."  
  
"Less than one thousand feet per second. Average is five to  
six hundred feet per second. High velocity exceeds two and  
a half thousand feet per second. The amount of tissue  
damage is determined by the kinetic energy lost by the bullet  
in the body."  
  
"And kinetic energy is determined by bullet weight, velocity  
and gravitational acceleration."  
  
"Rifles and shotguns that produce high velocity are used in  
less than five percent of crimes perpetrated against the  
public," Sara pointed out.  
  
"It doesn't mean that one wasn't used."  
  
"But there are also cartridges which mimic the high velocity  
impact a rifle will produce. The .44 Magnum, .38 special  
and some .357 Magnum loadings."  
  
"Definitely not a 9mm Luger," Grissom conceded. "And the  
multiple footprints leading in and out of this room make it hard  
to declare a simple murder-suicide scenario. It could be, but  
it also might not be. Keep your mind open to all possibilities,  
Sara."  
  
Grissom left the room, Brass and Sara following in his wake.   
Moving out to the porch, they found the body of a young boy.   
He had been shot several times in the chest, large bore holes  
witness to the massive internal trauma inflicted.  
  
  
"Second male. Caucasian, approximately ten years. Shot  
three times in the upper torso. Lying in a pool of blood."   
Grissom finished his notes, brushing the back of his hand  
across his forehead when he had completed the last word.   
  
"The position of the body looks like he was moving away  
from the shooter," Sara said.  
  
"Possibly."  
  
"Probably." Sara gave him a challenging look.  
  
"Sara..."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Don't interpret, acquaint myself," Sara  
responded quoting Grissom's grounding comment that he  
often said to pull her back into assessing the scene. She  
continued photographing the body, finishing the film.  
  
Grissom looked across at her, his mouth slightly agape. He  
marvelled at how she remembered so much of what he said  
to her. This worried him. His intended conversation with  
Sara was going to be tough, especially knowing that she  
remembered his words so well.   
  
"That's it for the prelim. Let's get to work. Sara, will you  
process out here?"  
  
"Okay."   
  
  
  
A flash caught her eye. Sara looked up from her examination  
of the boy's body. The porch lights burned brightly, bathing  
part of the lawn area in white light. The flash came again, the  
swaying movement of the long bladed grass in the gentle  
breeze revealling its hidden prize. Grabbing the camera, Sara  
approached the spot with caution, careful not to disturb the  
evidence as she took photographs of the bullet casing.   
  
Picking up the spent shell on the wet grass, Sara looked back  
at the body. On the walk through with Grissom, logic had  
dictated to her to assume the boy had been running away  
from the killer. Shot three times in the back. She'd assumed  
he'd been killed last, trying to get away from the killer.   
Now, she wasn't sure. If he had been shot running away  
from the house, his killer inside, the spent shell should have  
been inside the house or just outside the door, not out in the  
grass.   
  
Dropping the shell into a paper evidence packet, Sara sealed  
the top and pulled out her pen to label it. As she crouched  
writing the label, she looked back towards the body. Her  
mouth twisted into a frown, her eyes narrowing. Were they  
wrong? She searched the lawn for extra shells, the length of  
the grass hampering her efforts. Expanding the search area,  
almost at once she found the other two shells three feet away.   
Together with a shoeprint. It was smaller than what they had  
found earlier.   
  
With the evidence, photographed, collected and packaged,  
Sara began surmising a scenario of her own. Sara took a  
closer look at the gunshot wounds on the dead boy.   
Estimating his height and the location of the spent shells, she  
located the three slugs. Two were embedded in the timber  
frame of the window beside the open door. The third had a  
higher trajectory, indicating a change in the level of the gun;  
most likely, the closest shot to the victim. She dug the slugs  
out of their hiding place and put them with the other evidence  
on top of her open field kit.   
  
Kneeling beside the boy on one knee, Sara took a closer look  
at the bullet wounds on his back. "Why did this happen to  
you? To your family?" she whispered to the cold corpse, life  
having left his body hours ago.   
  
"Leave him alone."  
  
Sara started at the sound of the shaky voice. She hadn't  
heard the clip of approaching feet. She had been totally engrossed   
in her job. Slowly turning her head towards the sound of the voice,  
she found herself staring into the muzzle of a handgun. A  
handgun which was shaking unsteadily in the thin, pallid hands  
of an unsettled woman. Sara noted that the woman's eyes  
were darting left and right, never focusing on one spot.   
  
"Don't touch him. You have no right." The woman  
screeched, the gun jumping up and down in Sara's direction.  
  
"Ma'm, I'm with the Crime Scene Investigation Unit...." Sara  
said softly, trying not to make any sudden moves or distress  
the woman any further.   
  
"This is my home. My son. You have no right to be here.   
I've got to take care of my children." The woman's voice  
softened as she spoke of her son; her children. Tenderness  
filled her voice and the gun lowered.   
  
Sara absorbed the change in her demeanour. This was a  
perfect example of why she preferred dealing wtih dead  
people. Their moods did not change with the wind. "Ma'm,  
your son has been shot. I'm sorry, but his injuries were fatal  
..."  
  
"No. You're lying. He wasn't dead when I left him. You  
killed him!" The unnerving screech punctuated the words.   
The hand on the gun suddenly steadied, the muzzle focusing  
solidly on Sara.  
  
'Oh, shit!' Sara thought as she realised that this conversation  
had taken a deadly turn and dove to the ground. She rolled  
awkwardly, away from the boy's body, natural instinct  
causing her to try to preserve the crime scene. Curling herself  
up tightly, she covered her head with her hands, protecting  
herself; trying to make herself as small a target as possible.   
The report from the gun rang out clearly in the still evening air.   
  
  
End Part 5/? 


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6/?  
  
Catherine pulled up the navy SUV beside the first CSI vehicle.   
Sara and Grissom had already been at the crime scene for  
close on two hours. Although, she knew, they would have  
barely scraped the surface. Multiples made their job more  
intensive as they needed to not only work out when, where,  
what with and why but also the sequence in which the murders  
took place. Sometimes working out the sequence would also  
prove the why of the tragic deaths.   
  
The street was quiet and there were no onlookers which didn't  
surprise Catherine. The night air was beginning to get chilly,  
the unusual rain having brought a cooler change to the humid  
climate. She had no doubt that the street had been lined with  
curious neighbours earlier. A crime scene drew onlookers like  
a cadaver attracted flies.   
  
Catherine slipped on a pair of paper booties over her shoes  
and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. Holding them in her right  
hand, she grabbed her field kit and walked up the path  
towards the house.  
  
"Catherine, glad you finally made it," Brass said as he came  
out the front door of the house. "Grissom's upstairs. First  
room to the right."  
  
"Right. Thanks, Brass," Catherine said over her shoulder as  
she entered the house. She ended up having to back track her  
steps for a moment while the coroner's office removed a body  
from upstairs.   
  
"Is that the last one?" Catherine asked the tousled haired  
coroner's assistant as he judiciously stepped backwards down  
the front step.   
  
"Nope," John answered with a sharp shake of his head. "Two  
to go."  
  
"Busy night, huh?" Catherine commented. It was unusual that  
the bodies were still being removed nearly two hours after the  
arrival of the CSIs at a crime scene.  
  
"Yeah. Haven't you noticed the full moon?" John indicated  
towards the round, full moon shining brightly, peeking out  
from behind the clouds filling the night sky.  
  
Catherine followed his gaze. "Always a sure sign of trouble."  
  
"It sure brings out the weirdos. At least we're on this end of it.   
Couldn't imagine being a cop or a medic on a night like this."  
  
"I'm sure the people in your bag would prefer not to have  
been on their end of the deal," Catherine reminded him grimly.  
  
"I know." John sent her a cheery grin as he continued with his  
job.   
  
Catherine carefully made her way into the hallway and took in  
the scene. She avoided the evidence trail and went upstairs.   
From the amount of blood on and at the top of the stairs,  
Catherine realised that the room Grissom was working in  
would not be pretty.   
  
"Hey, Gil. You called..." Catherine drawled, as she put down  
her field kit beside Grissom's in the girls' bedroom.  
  
"Yeah, we need more hands on deck," he responded,  
indicating the crime scene. He was crouched over a pool of  
congealing blood, collecting samples for analysis.  
  
"What a mess," Catherine commented, her eyes slowly  
absorbing the amount of blood and gore coating the floor and  
walls of the room. "What did they use? A shotgun?"  
  
"Something of that magnitude," Grissom said as he sealed the  
small vial containing the sample. "Sara has also suggested a  
couple of smaller loadings which can produce the same high  
velocity trauma."  
  
"She would," Catherine responded, trace of sarcasm lacing her  
tone.  
  
Grissom turned his head sharply at the tone. "Where's that  
comment come from?"  
  
"Dissecting Sara from her computer is almost like conducting  
an amputation," Catherine responded dryly.   
A smile tugged at the edges of Grissom's mouth. He had to  
agree with Catherine on that point. The amount of information  
that Sara managed to scour through her computer searches  
was amazing.   
  
"How did she take what you said?" Catherine asked, bending  
down beside him.  
  
"We haven't talked yet," Grissom said shortly, avoiding  
meeting Catherine's eyes. He spied a hair mixed in with the  
blood; it was short, dark and curly, unlike that of the victim.  
  
"What're you waiting for?"  
  
"An appropriate time to discuss it. This," Grissom indicated to  
the scene around him with the tweezers in his hand, "is not the  
right time."  
Catherine didn't bother even to respond to his reasoning.   
Instead, she rewarded him with a withering look.  
  
Grissom returned her gaze, his mouth slightly twisted. "I'm  
going to speak with Sara. Tonight is not the right time. She is  
running on adrenalin alone."  
  
"How's she coping?"   
  
"The usual. It's not the first time Sara has worked like this."  
Grissom thought of the occasions when the toll of the extensive  
hours she put into an investigation had her falling asleep at her  
computer terminal or in the lounge. It was only when she  
slowed down for a break that the tiredness seemed to hit her.   
He hoped that the pattern would continue with this case.   
  
"It's the first time you have been worried about her though,"  
Catherine reminded him quietly.  
  
Grissom couldn't disagree with her there. It had been Sara's  
close association with the victim that concerned him. He  
should have recognised the signs earlier; he had overheard the  
whispered promise in the hospital. The overhelming need to  
give the victim an identity, a past before she died, should have  
registered with him. He had worked with Sara often enough to  
know that this was not how she would react normally.   
Something was wrong and he'd ignored all the pointers.   
  
"Anyway, you wanted me on this crime scene. What do you  
want me to do?" Catherine knew that this scene was going to  
take many more hours of investigation. The fact that the  
victims had not all been shot in the one area immediately  
making the task more complicated.  
  
"There's the study to still be done. We've only done a  
prelim," Grissom told her. "I'd also like you to do an analysis  
of the crime scene. Find out the sequence and then we may  
know the who and why."  
  
Catherine frowned at his comment, her brow furrowing. "So,  
taking a guess, the father in the study with a rifle."  
  
"Father and study correct, 9mm Luger was the weapon of  
choice." Grissom informed her succinctly, raising his eyebrows  
at her as he labelled another evidence bag.   
  
"But these injuries aren't consistent with a Luger," Catherine  
stated, pursing her lips together as she looked around the room  
again.   
  
"Begs the question, doesn't it?"   
  
"So it might not be a murder-suicide."  
  
A gunshot resounded in the silence. Grissom paled, instantly  
remembering how Holly Gribbs had come to lose her life. His  
earlier concern for Sara immediately had him frozen, worried  
that Sara had suffered the same fate.  
  
"What the hell?" Catherine turned quickly, drawing her gun  
from her holster, trying to determine where the shot had come  
from.   
  
Grissom followed her out the door, to the top of the stairs.   
Basic training had both Grissom and Catherine cautious in their  
movements, despite the fact that they wished to run around the  
house to ensure that all their team were okay.  
  
They were on the stairs when they saw Brass entering the front  
door, his gun drawn. Behind him were two local police  
officers, their eyes anxiously searching the room, guns held  
tightly in their hands.   
"Where did the shot come from?" Brass asked them in a stage  
whisper.   
  
"Down here somewhere," Catherine responded, carefully  
moving down the stairs, one step at a time.  
  
"Where's Sara?" Brass asked.   
  
"I had her assessing the scene out the back," Grissom  
responded, his voice steady, not revealling the fear that  
gripped him.   
  
Brass directed the two officers to check the downstairs area of  
the house. "Let's check out back. Stay behind me."  
  
End Part 6/? 


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7/?  
  
  
Sara was relieved when there was no sudden impact of a bullet  
hitting her body or grazing her skin. A rain of warmth fell on  
her arms, hands and head, followed by a heavy thud. The  
smell of death permeated Sara's senses. She opened her  
eyes, blinking slowly. Peering between crooked arms still  
protecting her head, she noted the scene in front of her. A  
combination of grey brain matter and blood covered the area,  
substances that both had not been there before. Hesitantly  
Sara released the tight grip of her hands on her head.   
Looking at the raw material coating her arms and hands, a  
small shudder of revulsion ran through her.   
  
"Sara?" Grissom called out. "Sara?"   
  
Sara unfolded herself from her cramped, protective huddle.   
Pushing herself up into a sitting position, her left leg crossed  
beneath her for balance while she rested her right elbow on the  
other bent knee. All her energy seemed to disappear as she  
absorbed the scene around her. Sighing, she brought her  
hand up to her temple, massaging the area, attempting to ease  
the pulsating pressure pounding a monotonous tune.   
  
"Sara? Are you all right?" Catherine asked.  
  
Surprised at hearing Catherine's voice, she frowned, lines  
furrowing her brow. The voices sounded so distant, far away  
from where she was surrounded by death. Stopping the  
massage on her temple, she swivelled her head to see a trio of  
concerned faces. Grissom, Catherine and Brass filled the  
doorway.   
  
"Ah...yeah... I think so," Sara responded, her voice unsteady,  
the magnitude of the situation still keeping her off balance. She  
found it hard to fathom that the gun, which had been aimed at  
her when she dived to the ground, had failed to deliver the  
bullet in her direction. Sara felt numb, unsure how she should  
feel. Grateful that the woman had chosen to blow off her own  
head? A shiver shook her thin frame and she wrapped her  
arms tightly around herself, warding off the chill that was  
permeating her clothing. Her own voice sounded muffled,  
caught in a maelstrom of silence.   
  
"Sara, we need to get you checked out. Make sure you're  
okay." Grissom was concerned at how slowly she was  
reacting, her movements stilted. He moved out through the  
door towards his dark-haired CSI.  
  
Sara shook her head, wincing as the action increased the  
pounding in her head. "No. I'm fine. Just in need of a  
shower."   
  
"Don't be disturbed if we don't agree with you," Brass  
commented, following closely behind Grissom. It was hard to  
discern if she did or didn't have an injury. Blood splatter  
coated the back of her overalls in viscous streaks. He  
watched her reaction to the scene, or lack of reaction. Shock  
was obviously beginning to set in. There was a slight tremor in  
the hands resting on her knee. Following her gaze, looking  
over the changed crime scene, old evidence mixing with new,  
he asked, "what happened?"  
  
"The mother came back," Sara said simply.  
  
"She's the mother?" Catherine asked, surprised.  
  
"Yeah," Sara answered softly, her gaze falling on the still body.   
The force from the bullet had blown away half of the woman's  
skull. Technically, she noted that the bullet from the .44  
Magnum had performed exactly as expected. The skull had  
exploded in both directions, the force of the bullet causing the  
brain tissues to expand and collapse upon themselves,  
expelling the brain matter through both the entrance and exit  
wounds.   
  
"Did you use your gun?" Brass brought Sara's focus back on  
his line of questioning. He recognized the distant look in her  
eyes. He wanted to get the basic police procedural  
requirements covered so that she could be removed from the  
scene as quickly as possible.   
  
Sara shook her head.   
  
"I'll need it anyway... procedure."   
  
Sara nodded, unfazed by the request. She hadn't drawn the  
weapon at all during the exchange with the woman. Pulling her  
gun from its sheath at her hip, she handed the gun over to  
Brass. "You'll need my clothes as well."  
  
"Yes. We will. Later. Right now, I want you to see a  
doctor," Grissom told her shortly.   
  
"I told you, I'm fine."  
  
Grissom held out a hand to help Sara up. She grasped his  
hand, frowning at the grisly residue on the back of her gloved  
hand. She let out a yelp of pain at pressure placed on her  
wrist as she rose to her feet.   
  
"That doesn't sound like 'fine' to me," Grissom remarked as  
he captured the injured arm to look at it more closely. He  
pulled off the latex gloves covering her hands, dropping them  
to the ground.   
  
"It'll only be a sprain. Look - each finger bends." Sara  
demonstrated, her fingers performing a miniature Mexican  
wave. Sara looked directly at Grissom, her brown eyes  
meeting his as she tried to convince him that she was all right.  
"I can even twist it this way and... that." The look backfired as  
she winced at the pain that shot up her arm as she manipulated  
her wrist, her voice catching in her throat.  
  
"Sara, it's the 'that' that I'm concerned about," Grissom said  
softly, touching her shoulder lightly. "Humour me, will you?"   
  
She nodded, too tired to argue, knowing that Grissom would  
not be satisfied until she had been given the all clear by medical  
personnel.  
  
"Cath?" Grissom asked with a single word.  
  
Catherine interpreted his unspoken question. "Come on, Sara.   
Let's get you down to Southside." Walking towards the  
doorway, Catherine left it to Sara to make the decision to  
leave. She knew her teammate well enough to know that it  
would need to be her decision to go, rather than being pushed.  
  
Sara gave the crime scene one last look, cold reality seeping  
through the protective layer of shock. A small tremor shook  
her light frame and she quickly followed Catherine back into  
the house.  
  
"Wonder why the woman lost her head - literally?" Brass  
asked as he slipped the gun Sara had handed him into an  
evidence bag.   
  
"Half her head." Grissom collected the camera Sara had left  
beside her kit, intending to photograph the changed scene. He  
noticed the evidence bags and the completed evidence list and  
nodded, approving. Sara was nothing, if not thorough. There  
would be no compromise of the chain of evidence in this case,  
despite the almost disastrous result.  
  
"Right," Brass said shortly.  
  
The sound of footfalls in the kitchen behind them had both men  
reacting, Brass reaching for his gun. It was only Sara, her  
brown eyes squinting at them. She was still clad in her overalls,  
the dark stains marring the surface a lurid reminder of the  
danger she had endured.  
  
"You were going to the hospital," Grissom pointed out, his  
tone harsher than he intended.  
  
"Yeah. In a moment," Sara brushed his concern aside. "I'd  
better give you a quick rundown on the scene before she  
turned up. Grissom, that boy wasn't shot from behind."  
  
Grissom raised his eyebrows, waiting patiently for her to  
continue.  
  
"I found the shell casings in the grass over here and three  
bullets were in the timber frame of the window." Sara pointed  
to the various sites where she had discovered the evidence.   
Finally, she threw in the main reason she had returned to the  
porch. "The mother also made reference to having been here  
before."  
  
"What did she say exactly, Sara?"  
  
"He wasn't dead when I left him," Sara rushed the words,  
quoting the mother's chilling phrase. The pounding in her head  
was increasing, the bright lighting on the porch aiding the  
marching band that was currently practising its maneuvers  
within her head.   
  
"That could mean anything," Grissom pointed out.  
  
"True. But she wasn't shocked to find him lying shot on the  
ground." Sara looked over at the woman, the sight instantly  
replaying the scene in her mind; the gun levelled in her direction  
and the shot which muted the sound of everything else.  
  
"I'll need a full statement from you," Brass pointed out.  
  
"After she's been to the hospital," Grissom interjected, placing  
the camera back beside Sara's field kit. "Brass, stay with the  
evidence."   
  
Brass looked back at Grissom, a mixture of displeasure and  
understanding filling his face. He didn't appreciate being  
commanded by him, especially considering that Grissom had  
once been his responsibility; the one who answered to his  
commands. Yet, at the same time, he knew why the  
instruction was given.   
Grissom lead Sara out of the house towards Catherine's SUV.   
The gunshot had brought the inquisitive neighbours out into the  
street again. Together with a circus of media. Grissom  
frowned as they walked down the path; Sara's head was  
downcast and her pace distinctively subdued, ignoring the  
cameras that were capturing their every move.   
  
Catherine was at the rear of the vehicle, a large evidence bag  
in her hand. Sara undid the buttons with her right hand, the  
nerves of her injured arm still twinging sympathetically in  
response to the earlier inspection.   
"Do you want some help?" Catherine offered, seeing her  
struggle with a button.  
  
"No." Sara shook her head. She needed to do this on her  
own. She hadn't been shot as luck would have it and she  
wasn't going to break down in front of everyone because  
she'd been scared. Her pride wouldn't allow her to do that,  
but she was struggling all the same. It would be so easy to curl  
up in a corner and cry.   
  
The overalls and booties were dumped into the bag and tied  
securely. Grissom picked up the bag and watched Sara hop  
into the SUV.   
  
"She'll be okay, Gil. She's strong."  
  
"I know. It's just... it shouldn't have happened." He shook  
his head. It was so soon after the Holly Gribbs murder with  
similar circumstances. This time a CSI had not been fatally  
injured, but it did not make him feel any better.  
  
"No murder should happen, but we both know that they do.   
There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. You  
were all following procedure."  
  
"Cath, make sure she gets properly checked out. Her hearing  
as well." Grissom had noticed the way Sara had reacted when  
they were speaking, squinting her eyes and focussed  
concentration on their words. It could be a simple headache,  
but he wanted to be sure.   
  
"Sure."   
  
End Part 7/? 


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8/?  
  
  
Sara frowned, her forehead creasing as her eyes adjusted to  
the darkness. Swivelling around, she noticed that she was in a  
quiet, dimly lit, suburban street. The night air was cold causing  
her to shiver, her thin top little resistance against the chill. A  
crisp breeze swayed the trees lining the street, their skeleton-  
like branches casting eerie shadows.  
  
Sara moved forward slowly down the street, her steps at first  
tentative. As she walked, she found herself drawn towards  
one particular house. There was no outward sign of movement  
within the house. A single outdoor lamp threw a soft round  
beam of yellow light on the porch. Carefully, she moved  
closer until she stood at the bottom of the four uneven steps;  
steps that would take her up within the glow of the candescent   
light.   
  
The weatherboard house was in need of repairs, white paint  
peeling in large, irregular flakes from the long planks. The front  
door was ajar, no light escaping from inside. Sara went up  
each step cautiously, the old woodwork creaking ominously  
beneath her weight and sending a shiver of fear down her  
spine. She moved forward, somehow knowing that this was  
what she must do despite an insistent warning that told her to  
leave. A distant memory tugged at her, but remained sealed.  
  
Pushing the door open, Sara gingerly stepped over the  
threshold into a pitch black hallway. She left the door ajar to  
allow some light to guide her way down the carpeted hall. She  
grimaced and shook her head. Instinct had her wanting to turn  
away, knowing that what she would find would haunt her. A  
deeper force was drawing her down the darkened hall like an  
insignificant mosquito to a light trap. She had to go down  
there, searching; searching for what she did now know. Her  
feet picked up the pace, her strides becoming longer as she  
began a gentle jog. A ball of fear welled in her chest, her  
mouth opened to call out a name that didn't reach her lips.  
  
In the darkness, Sara felt her foot collide with a solid object  
seconds before the impact sent her to her knees, falling to the  
ground beside the thing that had caused her to lose her  
balance. She frowned as she felt her hands connect with a wet  
surface on the carpet. She pulled her hands away, holding  
them close to her face in an attempt to identify the substance.   
It had a distinctive odour. Sara felt the dampness leeching  
through the knees of her jeans as well.   
  
Tentatively, she reached out to touch what had caused her fall.   
Shock filled her as she realised it was a body. Sara suddenly  
recognised the odour. Her mind rapidly connected the pieces  
of information her senses and hands had discovered and she  
rose to her feet seeking to find a light switch.   
  
She found one within the room opposite. Her hand rested on  
the switch as light illuminated the room and hallway. The pitch  
black scene was a harlequin of colour. In front of her lay the  
body of her best friend in a pool of blood, dark red stains on  
her torso revealling multiple stab wounds.   
  
"No."   
  
The sound broke through the silence in the room. Sara jolted  
awake. She took in the scene around her, relieved to find  
herself on top of a hospital bed, far away from the scene which  
had haunted her for over a decade. Catherine was leaning  
over the edge of the bed, her hand resting on top of Sara's.  
  
"Hey," Catherine greeted her, her blue eyes wide with  
concern. "You okay?"  
  
Sara nodded, running her tongue around the inside of her  
mouth before speaking. "What time is it?"  
  
"Just after two."   
  
"Catherine, I can go see a doctor in the morning," Sara said, a  
note of pleading in her voice. She pushed an errant strand of  
hair away from her face as she tried to displace the painful  
dream into the deep recesses of her memory. "As I said, I'm  
sure it's just a sprain. It's silly to sit here and waste the  
hospital's time and money on a simple sprain."  
  
"Sara, my daughter knows better than to continue to bug me  
with the same argument..." Catherine trailed off, letting her  
colleague make what she would of the statement. "Besides,  
Grissom'd roast me alive if I came back without a doctor's  
evaluation of your injury."  
  
Catherine knew she wasn't far wrong with that assessment  
either. She had witnessed the look on Grissom's face when he  
had seen Sara curled up on the ground. It wasn't an  
expression that she wanted repeated. The combination of  
shock and horror had rooted him to the spot, absorbing the  
crime scene in front of him.   
  
Those who didn't know Grissom would have assumed that he  
was doing his job, taking in the body of the boy to his left, the  
middle-aged woman with half her head exploded over the  
porch and his cowering CSI. But Catherine had known better.   
He had been scared, frightened that one of his own had been  
injured while doing a job he had given them. There was no  
way she was heading back to the labs without Sara having  
been given a full once over by the ER doctors.  
  
"Sorry I fell asleep." Sara let her hand drop to her side,  
resigned that she was not going to be able to wheedle  
Catherine into agreeing to let her go home.   
  
"You looked like you needed it," Catherine stated, her eyes  
narrowing as she pondered the small snippets of distress she  
had witnessed prior to Sara waking.  
  
Sara nodded, her eyes hooded as she sought to clear her mind  
of the image that filled it.  
  
"Although I'm not sure it gave you much rest. Nightmares?"  
Catherine forged forward, deciding that it would be best to  
bring the subject to the fore, since Grissom seemed to be  
unable to broach the subject. "You don't need to answer that.   
I'm pretty sure that I know the answer. Sara, we've all  
suffered from the problem of a case getting to us. There is  
always going to be that one case that hits too close too home.   
Grissom's worried about you."  
  
"Grissom worries too much."  
  
"Maybe you don't worry enough."  
  
"What do you mean?" Sara whipped her head sideways to  
stare at her strawberry-blonde haired colleague.   
  
"You live your life through your job. It's dangerous. You will  
burn out," Catherine told her matter-of-factly. "Maybe not this  
year or the next, but time will catch up with you and you'll be a  
shell of the Sara that everyone knew."  
  
"Why does everyone think I don't have a life outside of  
work?"  
  
"Because you don't. Sara, we see you every day. When do  
you take time off for yourself? You need a balance between  
work and everything else. Otherwise you'll be another  
Franovich."  
  
"What do you suggest?"  
  
"Find an interest outside of law enforcement."  
  
"That's what Grissom said."  
  
"He gives good advice." Catherine gave her a meaningful  
look.  
  
A short, dark-haired doctor walked into the room, a  
stethoscope around her neck. She hardly looked old enough  
to go to college let alone treat patients in a busy emergency  
department.  
  
"Sara Sidle?"  
  
Sara nodded and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the  
bed, dangling over the speckled linoleum floor. She  
introduced Catherine, stating that she didn't mind her staying in  
the room during the exam.  
  
"Dr. Langmead." The young doctor introduced herself before  
quickly confirming the necessary details on the form completed  
by the triage nurse. "I'll take your blood pressure before I go  
any further." As she went through the basic exam, she asked  
Sara various questions about her general health. "A bit low."  
  
"How low?" Catherine interjected, concerned.  
  
Dr. Landmead looked to Sara for guidance, who nodded her  
consent, not worried by the result at all.  
  
"98 over 60."  
  
"It's fine, Catherine. My BP is usually around that level. My  
mother and grandmother both had low blood pressures. It's  
probably a family thing."  
  
"You should be careful though," Dr. Langmead warned her.   
"You need to make sure you eat and drink regularly."   
  
"Yeah, I know. I've been told that before."  
  
"She's not great at following instructions which relate to her  
health," Catherine told the doctor sardonically, remembering  
the numerous times that Sara had forgone both food and drink  
to forge forward on a case. It wasn't even taking into  
consideration her unusual sleeping habits.  
  
Sara shot her a dirty look, thinking that she should have made  
her wait outside.   
  
Dr. Langmead accepted the unsolicited information, narrowing  
her eyes as she looked at her patient. "You fell on an  
outstretched hand?"  
  
Sara nodded.  
  
"No other injuries? You've got blood and...." The young  
doctor stopped as she realised what the other substance was.  
  
"No other injuries. And yes, I have blood and brain matter in  
my hair," Sara stated curtly. If she had had it her way, she  
would have gone back to CSI and had a shower before going  
anywhere else. Grissom and Catherine had other ideas and at  
the time, she hadn't felt like fighting the two of them.   
  
"Okay, let's have a look at it."   
  
Sara held out her left arm as the dark-haired doctor poked  
and prodded it this way and that, eliciting a few sharp intakes  
of breath as the movement sent waves of pain up her arm.   
Dr. Langmead applied a temporary splint to the arm and  
an ice pack to the area to help reduce the swelling.  
  
"Okay. It looks like it could be a scaphoid fracture. I'm going  
to send you for an x-ray. However, with scaphoid fractures,  
they are difficult to visualise on an x-ray due to the variable  
blood supply. Either way, I will be placing your wrist in a  
cast," Dr. Langmead said as she made several notes on the  
chart. "I'll send a nurse down to take you to x-ray shortly."   
  
The doctor left the room and Catherine sidled up beside the  
bed where Sara was still sitting, silent, contemplating the  
ramifications of the injury.  
  
"And you said it was only a sprain."  
  
"I was hoping," Sara said softly, fiddling with the battered,  
loose gold watch band on her left arm. Undoing the clasp, she  
held it out towards Catherine. "Can you look after it for me  
while I'm in x-ray? It's special."  
  
"Sure," Catherine agreed as the watch was dropped into her  
hand. She gently rubbed over the surface. "You must have  
cracked the face on the ground. You'll have to get it fixed."  
  
"No I didn't. It's been like that for over ten years."  
  
"Why don't you get it fixed?" Catherine was confused. Why  
would Sara have such a nice watch, obviously expensive, that  
didn't fit her wrist properly and have a damaged face.  
  
"It's a reminder to pay attention. I didn't do that tonight. I  
was so engrossed in the scene, in my own thoughts that I  
didn't hear her."  
  
"The mother?" Catherine asked, reeling at the sudden change  
in the direction of the conversation.   
  
"Yeah, she was standing less than two feet from me and I  
didn't notice. Why didn't she shoot me?"  
  
"I don't know. It's not your time. I can give you all sort of  
glib answers, but no one really knows. If I were you, I'd be  
grateful that I had been given another chance and make the  
most of it. Life is for living."  
  
End Part 8 


	9. Chapter 9

Part 9/?  
  
  
Grissom watched the SUV drive away into the darkness, the  
expression on his face unreadable. A flash of light drew his  
attention back to the crime scene that still needed processing. It  
was a daunting task to face on his own. He had called in  
Catherine to assist Sara and himself because it had turned out a  
much more involved case for them all. Pulling out his cell phone,  
he quickly hit the speed dial for a familiar number. The phone  
was answered quickly after only two rings.  
  
"Warrick. How are you going with the 419?"  
  
"Hey Griss. Just finished at the scene. We're headed back to  
the lab right now," responded Warrick, his voice distorted, the  
intermittent reception of the cell phone service playing havoc with  
their discussion as the car moved back towards the city centre.  
  
"I need you and Nick to help me finish up evidence collection  
here. Drop off your evidence at the lab and get over here asap."  
  
"Okay, what's the address?" Warrick asked, quickly jotting  
down the location as Grissom relayed it to them. He warned  
them that it was another gruesome scene with complications.  
  
Warrick found his disclosure unusual. Grissom usually kept these  
details close to his chest, or only revealled them in person. To do  
so over the cell phone, made him wonder what was wrong.   
There was an underlying concern in Grissom's voice that had him  
speculating. "How's Sara holding up?"  
  
"She's at the hospital," Grissom answered curtly, not needing the  
reminder of the current emotional and physical state of his CSI.   
"Get here as soon as you can." With that, he cut off the  
connection, moving back towards the house.  
  
The night air was now still as if the brutal discovery within the  
home had caused nature to go into quiet mourning. The  
coroner's department was moving the another body out of the  
house and into its van, the fourth for the night which filled the final  
space in its rear. As John shut the doors on the ravaged remains   
of a family, another black vehicle pulled up haphazardly beside  
it, lights flashing. David hopped out of the car with another  
assistant.  
  
"David; we've got an extra one for you out back." Grissom  
nodded towards the house and led the way through the crime  
scene.  
  
"Detective Brass told me what happened," David commented,  
his cell phone grasped in his hand and carrying his case in the  
other. "Frightening stuff. How's Sara?"  
  
"At the hospital," Grissom answered, his words clipped. Noting  
the concerned look on David's face, he continued, "she's fine."   
He said it to reassure himself as much as for David.  
  
"Oh. That's good." David followed Grissom towards the back  
of the house. "So the mother was the killer, huh?"  
  
"Possibly."  
  
"I though that the mother admitted to killing her kids."  
  
"Nothing is concrete. We will all interpret the evidence without  
letting other events cloud our judgement."  
  
"Good, you're back," Jim commented, breaking his pacing of the  
footpath leading up to the porch area. Despite the fact that he  
was used to seeing dead bodies, he had found it rather macabre  
and disconcerting to stand watch over them alone.  
  
David looked at the scene before him. It wasn't necessary to  
determine time of death by the usual method since it had been  
witnessed and could be accurately assessed. Moving around the  
body, he conducted a couple of examinations and made some  
notes before finally beginning his collection of the victim - or  
murder suspect, depending on which way you looked at it.   
"Interesting void in the pattern," he remarked, waving his hand to  
indicate the blood splatter pattern.  
  
"Sara," Grissom answered, his eyes capturing all David's  
movements around the victim, carefully stepping to avoid the  
evidence on the ground.   
  
Grissom surveyed the new crime scene, his face grim. The  
woman had shattered half her skull; blood and grey brain matter  
coated the porch. Except for one distinct area; the small area  
where they had found Sara curled into a ball, her arms covering  
her head, trying to protect herself from unexpected danger. It  
had been the first time he had ever seen her scared.   
  
It was so easy to imagine the scene that Sara had been faced  
with earlier that night. An unstable woman, waving a gun  
unsteadily at her as she had been caught unaware, processing the  
crime scene. Her dive to the ground to avoid the lethal projectile.   
  
  
Even in the early days of working with her, Sara had never  
shirked away from a crime scene investigation. Volubly  
expressed her distaste, but not once had she conveyed fear at  
what she was investigating. Her need to excel in all that she did  
meant that she had sought to work on cases that others would  
find difficult. Her exposure to a wide range of crime scenes had  
come not only from where she had trained, but also from her  
drive to be the best at what she did. The bigger risk with Sara  
was that she would get emotionally involved in the case as she  
had done with Pamela Adler.   
  
Looking at the spot where she had curled herself into as small a  
target as possible had given him a margin of insight into how  
frightened Sara had been for her life. The reality of how close  
Sara had come to being a victim at this scene hit him with full  
force.   
  
David realised he had unintentionally drawn Grissom's attention  
back to the shooting. His curiosity wondered what had  
happened and how Sara had been caught in such an invidious  
situation. Her job was to come in after the danger had passed.   
What had gone wrong? Patience was going to go a long way  
tonight. He knew that Grissom wasn't going to provide him with  
a detailed exposition and he would have to wait until the LVPD  
Express, as he had nicknamed the departmental grapevine, gave  
him a more accurate picture. With the aid of his assistant, David  
removed the body and left Grissom and Brass alone on the back  
porch.  
  
"Pretty gruesome," Jim commented, breaking the silence.  
  
Grissom raised his eyebrows.  
  
"To find one of your own caught in the line of fire."  
  
Grissom felt his chest tighten as he remembered that this wasn't  
the first time one of his own had been looking down the barrel of  
a suspect's gun. Nick and Sara had both been lucky. A split  
second; an unsteady, uncertain hand could have put both of them  
in the morgue like Holly.   
  
"It shouldn't have happened, Jim. I though the kid was involved.   
His footprints are all over the place. I didn't even give a thought  
about where the mother was."  
  
"Don't be so hard on yourself. The initial call was  
murder/suicide. You saw that it wasn't kosher. You did your  
job. You're not psychic."  
  
"In cases like these I wish I was."  
  
"Grissom... you said the kid's footprints were all over the place?   
  
  
"Yeah. On the stairs, in the girls' bedroom and outside the  
study."  
  
"What about out here?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"The kid's telling us porkies. He said that he saw the brother out  
the back here and immediately called us."   
"Obviously he's covering something; the question is what?"  
  
"I think I'm going to try and find out."  
  
End Part 9/? 


	10. Chapter 10

Many thanks to my wonderful betas, Alison (Vigirl)  
and Devanie  
  
Part 10/?  
  
Warrick frowned, dropping the hand holding the cell  
phone into his lap. Nick drove the Tahoe with  
familiar ease through the brightly lit Vegas streets.   
He looked across at his dark-skinned partner and  
narrowed his eyes.  
  
"What's the prob? What'd Grissom want?"  
  
"He needs our help on that multiple at Sunrise  
Manor... and Sara's at the hospital."   
  
"What?" Nick's head swivelled so quickly, he was  
lucky not to suffer whiplash.  
  
"Don't know why or how, but the sooner we drop  
off this stuff at the lab, the quicker we'll find out."   
Warrick's tone was even, despite the fact that his  
concern for his colleague had set his heart racing.   
  
They made the drive to Sunrise Manor in the least  
amount of time possible without breaking the speed  
limit. Nick held back on speeding, remembering  
Grissom's words the last time he had sped to a crime  
scene. From what he knew about Grissom,  
particularly when he was concerned about Sara, it  
was best to stay on his good side.   
  
Two patrol cars guarded the crime scene and  
protected the sole occupant of the house. Nick  
pulled the Tahoe up beside the police cars and the  
two young men jumped out. It was nearly 3.30 a.m  
and the street was deserted; the neighbours  
apparently favoured their warm beds in lieu of their  
inquisitive nature.   
  
As they entered the house, they found their superior  
waiting for them in the hallway. Grissom's eyes  
were hooded and he avoided looking at them  
directly, immediately issuing instructions on what he  
needed them to do.   
  
"What's this about Sara and the hospital? What  
happened?" Nick interrupted him, his curiosity and  
concern demanding answers to the questions filling  
his mind.  
  
Grissom sighed and finally looked at them both,  
revealling haunted smoky blue eyes. "She was  
injured when avoiding a bullet."  
  
"What?" Warrick flashed back to Holly Gribbs'  
death come back to him, a time when his addiction  
affected his judgement. "The perp was still here - in  
the house."  
  
"No. And we're not sure it was the perpetrator who  
shot Sara. The mother of the murdered children  
returned while we were analyzing the scene. Sara  
was caught out the back on her own. She hurt her  
arm when she hit the ground. Catherine's taken her  
to the hospital. She'll be fine." The last few words  
were said to not only convince the two men, but  
reassure himself.  
  
"Where's the mother now?" Nick asked.  
  
"Dead. Shot herself point blank with a .44  
magnum."  
  
"Messy," commented Warrick.  
  
"Right. Now we need to wrap up the collection.   
Time is getting away from us. The two girls were  
killed upstairs in the front bedroom. I will finish  
processing the room. Nick, you process the staircase  
and the landing. Warrick, the study. Make sure you  
get everything, both of you. This case isn't as  
straight-forward as it first appeared."  
  
Grissom answered Warrick's questioning look with  
a single raised eyebrow, his blue eyes encouraging  
the younger CSI to look beyond the surface.   
Grissom had a feeling about this case. There was  
conflicting evidence and if he was right, the young  
boy would be able to clear up some of the confusion.  
  
  
  
Grissom sat in his chair, his fingers subconsciously  
working the multi-coloured cube as he waited and  
thought.   
  
"Grissom."  
  
He looked up and found Nick standing in the  
doorway. He hadn't heard him arrive until he spoke.   
  
  
"The kid's advocate is here."  
  
Grissom put the Rubik's cube back on the desk and  
accompanied Nick to the police department  
interview rooms.   
  
Brass met them in the hall. "Kid has asked that his  
parents stay outside and the advocate has advised  
him of his rights. Are you ready?"  
  
"Let's do it," Grissom said, tilting his head slightly  
to the right.  
  
They walked into the room and sat down opposite  
the teenage boy and his counsel. Grissom watched  
the boy as Brass made the necessary introductions  
and statements for the tape; the way his eyes darted  
around the room warily, his hands constantly on the  
move.   
  
"James. You stated you were friends with Samantha  
Ryan."  
  
"Yeah. We've been going steady for three months."  
  
"Now, at the scene, you said that you hadn't entered  
the house."  
  
"Yes..."  
  
"Your footprints tell us otherwise. You were in the  
house, weren't you?"  
  
James' eyes widened as he realised that they had  
found out the truth.   
  
"Why don't you tell us what happened?"  
  
"I couldn't believe it. The way her head blew apart  
like that. It went everywhere. Why? Why did it  
have to happen? It wasn't Sam's fault. She didn't  
deserve to die like that. I should've done  
something... but I couldn't. I couldn't move. I just  
laid under the bed and watched, watched as they  
both died. I did nothing to help..." With those last  
choked words, James broke down crying, his head  
sinking down into his folded arms on the table,  
shoulders shaking visibly as the sobs racked his  
entire body.  
  
"Let's take a break," the advocate suggested.  
  
Grissom and Brass nodded their heads, saddened by  
what the boy had obviously had to witness, yet no  
closer to the truth of who exactly had perpetrated the  
crime. Brass noted the break in the interview for the  
taped record and stopped the tape before they both  
moved outside.  
  
"That was not what I was expecting," Grissom  
commented as he poured water into a plastic cup  
from the bottled water container.  
  
"No," Brass agreed, leaning back against the  
smudged, yellowed wall. "But he does have the  
answers we need. He witnessed everything."  
  
"He might only know what happened in the  
bedroom. I doubt he saw anything else, otherwise  
why wasn't he killed as well?"  
  
"Because the killer didn't know he was there."  
  
"Exactly." Grissom wanted to get back in and  
continue the interview, but knew that if they pushed  
too far, they'd get nothing. This was too important  
to push too far. "What have your interviews turned  
up?"  
  
"Husband was a psychiatrist. He had a practice  
downtown and was well-respected. His wife  
suffered from schizophrenia. She'd been under  
psychiatric care up until three months ago with  
regular fortnightly consults and was on prescribed  
medication. Her former psychiatrist was unable to  
state whether she was taking them. The script was  
last filled four months ago."  
  
"That doesn't mean her husband wasn't prescribing  
for her."  
  
"Husband's secretary mentioned that his wife had  
gone off them a couple of months ago. Apparently,  
her husband tried to convince her that she should  
take them, going so far as to slip them into her food  
or drink. She worked it out and started making sure  
she didn't eat or drink anything that could have been  
tampered with."  
  
"What were the family dynamics?"  
  
"Kids were apparently embarrassed by the way their  
mother acted. Tended to visit friends rather than  
having friends over. Relationship between husband  
and wife was rocky since she'd gone off the  
medication."  
  
"Any reported physical violence in your ..." Grissom  
broke off as he noticed the advocate coming towards  
them.  
  
"He's ready to continue."  
  
  
  
Catherine looked across surreptitiously towards the  
dark-haired woman in the seat beside her. Sara had  
been silent ever since they left the hospital. The x-  
ray had shown a scaphoid fracture and her arm was  
now encased in a cast from her palm to elbow. Sara  
hadn't appreciated Catherine's interference when  
she queried about Sara's hearing and headache. Dr.  
Langmead had insisted on running through a series  
of tests which had managed to delays their stay for  
another two hours.  
  
Parking outside the CSI building, Catherine was  
about to suggest that Sara wait in the car while she  
grabbed both their bags. But Sara was too fast for  
her, already undoing her belt and opening the door,  
adapting to her single-handedness quickly.  
  
Catherine shook her head, amazed at the pig-  
headedness that her colleague currently possessed.   
She could feel the way that Sara was pushing her  
away and knew the cause. Sara wasn't one to let  
another into her personal life, she was even less  
likely to share the things that scared her. Catherine  
realised that Sara was struggling to put the moment  
of weakness behind her and show them all how  
capable she was.  
  
Locking the car, Catherine found Sara still in the  
foyer signing in and searching for her ID.   
  
"Looking for this?" Catherine asked, holding Sara's  
ID in her hand.   
  
"Thanks," Sara said, reaching out to get the plastic  
card. She gave a puzzled frown when Catherine  
didn't let it go.  
  
"Sara, why don't you lie down in the break room  
while I go see Grissom, then I'll take you home."  
  
"Where's Grissom?"  
  
"Interviewing the kid," Warrick informed them both  
as he entered the foyer. "Sara, how's the arm?"  
  
Before either of them could stop Sara, she was gone,  
brushing by Warrick in her rush.   
  
"Does Grissom know she's here?" Warrick asked.  
  
"No."  
  
"We'd better go after her."  
  
"You know something, Rick; looking after Lindsay  
is easier than keeping an eye on Sara. Kids are  
forthright and you can anticipate them."  
  
"Sara's Sara. I can't believe that you ever thought  
anything involving her would be easy."  
  
"Guess you're right." Catherine responded,  
following Warrick out the door.  
  
  
  
Sara watched the interview through the darkened  
glass, resting her head against the cool surface while  
using the wall that met the glass for support.   
Despite the fact that the tablets she had been given  
were beginning to take effect, Sara forced herself to  
keep attuned to the interview. She needed answers  
to the question that had been plaguing her ever since  
she had woken from her nightmare at the hospital.   
  
"James, why don't you tell us what happened from  
the time you arrived at the house," Grissom invited,  
gently.  
  
James pulled himself up in his seat, placing his  
forearms on the table in front of him. He avoided  
looking at either of them, fixing his gaze on the table  
surface. His fingers rubbed at a scab on his left arm;  
he pushed at its surface as he began to detail what he  
knew.   
  
"Sam and I were going to the dance that night. I'd  
gone to her house to walk her back to mine. My  
parents were going to drive us to the dance. Sam  
didn't want to be embarrassed by her mother."  
  
"How so?" Brass interrupted.  
  
Grissom frowned at Brass. He had wanted the boy  
to tell the whole story before he asked any questions.  
  
"She was crazy. She'd say the stupidest things. The  
kids would tease Sam about her loopy Mom." James  
looked up at the two of them, trying to ensure they  
understood how ridiculous Sam's mother had acted  
whenever she came to the school.   
  
"What happened after you arrived?" Grissom  
directed the boy back to the crime scene.  
  
"Tom was outside playing football. I said hi and  
then Sam was there on the porch. I gave Sam the  
flower I'd bought her to wear."   
  
Sara imagined James talking to his fair-haired  
teenage girlfriend, handing over the single flower,  
encased in its protective covering; the shyness of the  
exchange, the tentative movement of their heads  
coming closer together before being broken apart by  
the boyish disgust of Tom behind them.  
  
"We went inside to her bedroom. Sam had her  
dress on but wanted to put on some make-up. Annie  
followed us. She's Sam's sister. She wasn't a pain  
in the neck like my sister. She just played in the  
corner with her dolls. Everything was fine until her  
mother came home. She wasn't meant to be home  
that night. She'd been in hospital since earlier that  
week."  
  
James' next words took Sara right into the world  
that he had experienced that night. A terrifying  
moment where he didn't know whether he would be  
next.   
  
A bang rang out in the air; it sounded like a gunshot,  
but most cars back-firing did. The two of them  
laughed, brushing aside their initial fear. A voice  
rang out in the air, strong and volatile. The sound of  
several doors being slammed, one after another,  
floated up the stairs.   
  
"Shoot - your Mom's home... what're we going to  
do?" James asked. Sam's mom hated him being in  
the house, let alone in her daughter's bedroom. He  
had to find a way out and quick.  
  
"Under the bed."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Get under the bed. She won't look under there."  
  
James did what he was told and slid under the white  
iron-framed bed. The quilt hung down over each  
side evenly, diminishing his view of the room. All  
he could see were feet; all he could hear were  
voices.  
  
"Sam's mom was ranting about something. All the  
words were jumbled and mixed. It didn't make any  
sense. The next thing I know, that bang we heard  
before, was in the room. Sam fell to the floor and I  
could see blood. Annie was screaming. Sam was  
crawling on the ground. She looked across at me;  
she was so afraid. I wanted to go and help her, but I  
couldn't move."  
  
James wanted to reach out and touch Sam, reassure  
her that he was there for her. Slowly, small  
movements drew her closer to him. Annie stopped  
screaming. He broke his fixated stare at Sam to find  
the small girl slumped on the ground on the other  
side of the bed, blood flowing freely and forming a  
large pool around her dark hair. Another shot rang  
out in the air. Sam was no more, her face blown  
away by the final, fatal shot. He sank his teeth into  
his crossed arm, preventing himself from crying out,  
knowing that he would be next.  
  
"I wanted to help her, I really did. Please, believe  
me, but I was scared..."  
  
"James, you had a right to be scared. There's  
nothing to be ashamed about," Grissom reassured  
him. "I know this is really difficult for you, but can  
you tell me what happened next?"  
  
"She just left the room. I didn't move because I  
didn't know if she was still in the house. I waited  
for ages under the bed, then there were footsteps. I  
pulled myself further under the bed. It wasn't her  
though. It was Mr. Atkinson. He checked both Sam  
and Annie, looking for their pulses. He was crying  
so hard. I'd never seen a man cry like that before.   
Then, he saw me. Told me to go home and walked  
out of the room."  
  
James slid out from underneath the bed. He looked  
down at the two bodies, ravaged by wounds that had  
spilled their blood across the floor. Kneeling beside  
Sam, he touched her tentatively; her body was still  
warm. Suddenly, he felt his stomach rebel and  
stumbled out of the room. In his haste, he lost his  
balance. James caught himself against the wall with  
a splayed hand, knocking the picture on the wall  
askew. He went down the stairs two at a time, his  
shaky legs only just managing to keep him upright.   
  
The front door was within easy reach when he heard  
the sound behind him. He waited for the shot, the  
one that would end his life. None came. Turning  
his head, James found Sam's father sitting in his  
den, gun in his right hand. Their eyes met.   
  
"I'm sorry, James. This shouldn't have happened."  
  
James wiped away at his eyes, brushing away the  
tears that had fallen quietly and freely throughout  
the interview. "Then I left. I knew what he was  
going to do. I was outside when I heard the shot.   
They were all dead. Everyone. I called 911."  
  
Sara slumped back against the wall, closing her  
eyes. In the end, it had been a murder-suicide, just  
not with the usual connotations. A whole family  
wiped out in one night of terror. And, a teenager  
probably scarred for life by what he had heard and  
witnessed. She could easily identify the nightmares  
he would experience for years to come.  
  
"Sara, you okay?"  
  
She jumped at the sound of Warrick's voice, not  
having realised there was anyone else in the room.   
"Yeah, I'm fine. A bit tired."  
  
"Why don't you go lie down in the break room? I'm  
going to finish up here and then take you home,"  
Catherine informed her, pushing her hair out of her  
eyes.   
  
"I might just do that," Sara agreed. She pushed off  
the wall and headed towards the door. Her two  
colleagues watched her leave.   
  
"Warrick, make sure she gets there safely. I want to  
talk to Grissom."   
  
"Sure Cath."  
  
End Part 10/? 


	11. Chapter 11

Part 11/?  
  
"Jim, what happened out there?"  
  
Brass frowned at Grissom, not understanding what he  
was referring to.  
  
"At the crime scene. How did the mother gain access  
to a sealed scene? Sara shouldn't have been put at risk  
like that; none of us should have."   
  
"Grissom." Catherine overheard his last statement as  
she walked down the hallway and deliberately called  
out his name to break the impending confrontation.   
Catherine watched the two men; the air around the pair  
literally sizzled with tension.   
  
He looked up, surprised to find her standing there.   
"Where is she?" Grissom looked past Catherine, his  
hooded eyes searching for Sara.  
  
Brass took this as his cue to leave. "I'll talk to you  
later, Gil."  
  
Grissom nodded his head distractedly, pushing aside  
his concern about the lack of crime scene control.,  
keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Catherine.   
  
"I convinced her to lie down in the briefing room for  
now." Catherine turned on her foot and waited a  
moment for Grissom to follow. "Warrick went with  
her. She saw the interview with the kid."  
  
Grissom sighed and inclined his head slightly towards  
Catherine as he said softly, "How did she take it? Is  
she okay?"  
  
"Physically? She's got a scaphoid fracture, whatever  
the hell that is. Doctor says she'll be fine. By the way,  
you were right about her hearing. She's got tinnitus  
from the gunshot. It should clear within a couple of  
days - a week at the max.." She stated the facts  
succinctly, her tone softening the bluntness of the  
words and her hands flowing in a smooth dance as she  
spoke.   
  
" Oh, and she has a headache. Although, she claims  
that she had that before she went to the crime scene.   
Emotionally? I don't think she's good. I was going to  
take her home, but given the time, I think you should."   
Catherine ran through the details quickly as they  
walked together. Her last words stopped Grissom in  
his tracks.  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Yeah, you." Catherine faced him and her eyes  
challenged him to take up the opportunity; either to  
talk with Sara or at least to take care of her for today.   
"Our shift is virtually over. I need to go home to  
Lindsay."  
  
Grissom nodded, understanding not only her  
responsibility but also her need. After dealing with a  
case like this, you wanted to draw your family close  
around you, to assure yourself that you were safe from  
the evil that inhabited the streets you tried to protect.   
Catherine was right, it was time for him to take  
responsibility and ensure that Sara was going to be  
okay.  
  
"Here, give this back to her." Catherine took Sara's  
watch out of her pocket and dropped it into the palm  
of his hand. "Ask the right questions and you may  
find the answer you have been looking for."  
  
"With a broken watch?" Grissom raised an eyebrow,  
confused by what significance the watch could  
possibly hold.  
  
"Sara mentioned that it was a reminder - a reminder to  
pay attention. Gil, she's having nightmares."  
  
"I know. She told me."  
  
"She did? When?"  
  
"When we investigated that guy who shot and then  
dumped his wife's body in the mountain; Scott  
Shelton. She was having trouble sleeping, putting  
herself in the place of the victim."  
  
"I don't think that's it; not this time." Catherine shook  
her head to emphasise her words. "She called out the  
name Naomi several times before she woke up with a  
scream. I think it's much more personal."  
  
"So, how do I deal with it? I can't just ask her."  
  
"You're going to have to work it out. Sara trusts you.   
You've got history which will serve in your favour. If  
it's personal, she'll open up to you more than me.   
Trust your instincts. It works with your cases - why is  
it so difficult for you to do the same with Sara?"  
  
Grissom fingered the watch, running his thumb over  
the cracked and scratched face. He'd noticed Sara  
wearing the watch previously, the loose band falling  
over her latex gloves frequently at a crime scene.  
  
"Because it is Sara," he thought to himself, the skin on  
his thumb catching slightly on the rough watch face.  
  
Catherine watched him silently, knowing that an inner  
struggle was taking place. "I'll go and get her bag."   
  
  
  
  
Warrick sat on the couch in the break room, silently  
channel surfing as he watched over his sleeping  
colleague. It had surprised him when she had offered  
no resistance to Catherine's suggestion and even more  
so, that she had actually fallen asleep.   
  
"Hey man, what's with watching TV? There's work  
to be done," Nick said, his voice booming in the  
silence.  
  
"Shhh." Warrick whispered, pointing towards the  
sleeping form on the opposite couch.   
  
"Wow. She's sleeping. Greg provide you with some  
valium?" Nick chuckled as he dropped down on the  
seat beside Warrick. "Seriously, what's the secret?"  
  
"Have no idea. She crashed as soon as she laid  
down."   
  
"She really must be hurt."  
  
"Cath only mentioned a fracture. I think it's  
exhaustion."   
  
"Miss 'let's work three days straight' Sidle?" Nick  
asked him, incredulously.   
  
"Good point. Maybe Greg did slip something into her  
drink."  
  
Grissom entered the break room, his eyes questioning  
as he found Nick and Warrick both sitting on the  
couch opposite Sara.  
  
"She's okay, Griss. She's just sleeping," Warrick  
reassured him.  
  
Grissom watched as she slept. It wasn't the first time  
that he had caught her asleep, although it was the first  
time she had adopted a more comfortable position. It  
still wouldn't be as comfortable as her own bed. He  
leaned over her and brushed his hand against a stray  
lock of hair, the softness delicate against his rough,  
calloused fingers. "Sara."  
  
No response. Crouching down, he tried again, saying  
her name a bit more loudly this time and running his  
hand down the side of her face. "Sara."  
  
She looked up at him groggily, her eyes slipping shut  
again.  
  
"Sara, c'mmon." Grissom shook her shoulder gently.   
"You need to go home. Sleeping here is not an  
option."  
  
Her eyelids fluttered open again, narrowing as they  
absorbed his presence in front of her. "Grissom?"  
  
"Yes, Sara. How about I take you home?" Grissom  
gave her a small, uncertain smile.  
  
"Comft'ble here," she slurred, curling herself up into  
a tighter ball, closing her eyes once more.  
  
"No, you can't sleep here, not tonight." He shook her  
shoulder again, forcing her to open her eyes again.  
  
"Slept 'ere plennie of times."  
  
"Hmm, well, maybe I'm changing your sleeping  
habits." Grissom watched her for a moment, her  
lethargy unusual. "What painkillers did they give  
you?"  
  
"Dunno... but, they're good."  
  
"So I've noticed." Grissom pulled out his cell phone  
and hit the speed dial. "Cath, what pain meds did the  
hospital prescribe?"  
  
"I don't know. She's got a bottle of painkillers in her  
jacket. Why?"  
  
The sound of her voice resounded loudly in the room.   
Grissom turned around to find Catherine placing  
Sara's bag on the table, cell phone in her hand.   
  
"Sara's almost out cold," Grissom said, his voice  
tinged with concern. He fished through the coat  
hanging over the end of the couch. He turned the  
bottle in his left hand until he could read the label. "I  
know what the problem is now, Catherine," Grissom  
told her with a small shake of his head.  
  
"Care to let us in on the secret?" Nick interjected into  
the two-way conversation.  
  
"Sara takes antihistamines. It's increased the sedative  
effects of the Doxolene in the painkiller. She's going  
to sleep for quite a while."   
  
Warrick frowned, pondering the statement. "Since  
when?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Since when has Sara had allergies."  
  
"Years... pollen," Grissom told him, distractedly. It  
worried him that she had not thought about the  
interaction of the two drugs. Sara was more careful  
than that; had always double checked any medication  
that she was prescribed. In actual fact, he recalled  
how difficult it was to get her to take anything other  
than her antihistamines.   
  
"Grissom, she needs to go home," Catherine reminded  
him, softly. She moved alongside him and handed  
him Sara's bag and keys.   
  
"Warrick, can you give me a hand getting her out to  
my car?" Grissom bent down beside Sara again,  
intending to wake her enough that he would be able to  
get her into his car.  
  
"Griss, don't." Warrick touched Grissom's shoulder  
lightly, stopping his hand from reaching out and  
giving their sleeping colleague a gentle shake. With a  
swift swoop of his arms, Warrick easily scooped Sara  
up   
into his arms, her weight causing him less exertion  
than one of his weight workouts.   
  
Grissom expected a protest to emanate from the  
quiescent figure. He was surprised when she only  
snuggled in closer and mumbled about being cold.   
Something about her actions made him feel lost in a  
sea of emotion. He wished that he had thought to pick  
her up rather than try to wake her; to have had the  
height and the guile to have completed the action as  
swiftly and with the confidence Warrick exhibited.   
  
"Gil, your car keys?" Catherine asked, looking at him  
inquisitively.  
  
Grissom quickly wiped any emotion from his face.   
Catherine had an intuitiveness that defied definition.   
He really didn't need her on his case about Sara any  
more than she already was. Catherine was a romantic  
at heart and... 'Where did that come from?' Grissom  
thought as he dangled the keys to his car in his hand  
and followed the entourage out to the parking lot.  
  
End Part 11/? 


	12. Chapter 12

Part 12/?  
  
See Part 1 for disclaimers  
  
Once again, many thanks to Alison (VIgirl) for her  
wonderful editing and the time she puts into doing it for  
me.  
  
  
Early morning light danced across the dappled sky, streaks  
of pink dashed here and there as the sun began its ascent  
on the horizon.   
  
"Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning," Grissom  
muttered to himself as he drove towards Sara's apartment.   
The last few days had been a warning to him.   
  
Glancing across at the passenger seat, Grissom noted that  
Sara had curled herself up tightly again as if warding off  
a chill. As soon as he had started the car, he had turned  
on the heating. The interior was now overheated, yet she  
continued to huddle and mutter about the coldness.   
  
It was very tempting to turn around and take Sara to his  
place, tuck her into his own bed and watch over her. But  
that would defeat the purpose of his taking Sara home.   
Home was a place of comfort and warmth. As Catherine  
had pointed out, his place was a hermetically sealed  
condominium. He'd argued with her that it was a  
townhouse and she had quickly pointed out that men had  
a habit of avoiding the obvious truth. He knew that  
Catherine hated the austerity of his apartment. He liked  
to think of it as easy to care for. Less clutter meant less  
work.  
  
Right now, he was sure that God was conspiring against  
him. Every light turned red at his approach. He was  
tempted to use his strobe light, despite the regulations.   
Common sense made him sit patiently at each set of  
contrary lights and gently take off once it had turned  
green, keeping his passenger safe, rather than flooring the  
accelerator. He had investigated enough accident scenes  
to know not to give into the urge to speed. All it took  
was one driver going through a red light and another being  
very quick off the mark to end in disaster.  
  
Grissom finally pulled up outside Sara's building. Her  
apartment was on the third floor. He recalled Sara's  
complaints earlier in the week, prior to the Pamela Adler  
case, about the lifts at her building being out of action.   
Twisting his mouth, he thought about how he was going  
to get Sara up there without dropping her as he tried to  
open the door. He didn't quite possess Warrick's athletic  
skills and resigned himself to the notion that he would  
need to make two trips.  
  
Grissom turned to check that Sara was still sleeping. She  
had stirred for a moment as he stopped the car, before  
adjusting to the cessation of movement. Her eyes  
remained closed. Grabbing Sara's handbag and keys from  
the back seat, he raced inside the building. He looked to  
see if the lift was possibly working, but the large red  
words 'Out of Order' on the white cardboard told him the  
truth of the matter.  
  
Grissom took the stairs two at a time, not wanting to leave  
Sara alone in the car for any length of time. He was  
breathing heavily by the time he got to Sara's apartment  
on the third floor, his breath coming out in audible gasps.   
  
  
He quickly opened the front door and dropped her  
handbag on the cluttered desk that stood a few feet away.   
It surprised him that the desk was cluttered; the state of  
the art computer system was surrounded by an assortment  
of magazines and catalogues. A cork board hung over the  
desk, the surface almost fully covered with an assortment  
of details which made up her life. One particular item on  
her desk took him totally by surprise. It was a picture of  
a day that was permanently etched on his mind, and now  
he knew it was one that she sought to remember as well.   
It was a reminder of a time when things weren't so  
complicated. Or when he was not afraid to show his  
emotions.  
  
He picked up the photograph that had been taken at the  
theme park, running his finger over it as he was caught up  
in the magic. Sara's eyes sparkled brightly and a broad  
smile lit up her face as she looked across at the man  
standing by her side, his arm draped possessively over her  
shoulder. Grissom gave a tentative smile as saw how the  
photograph had captured in technicolour the way he had  
been caught by that megawatt smile, the one that easily  
melted his heart like a plate of ice cream left out in the  
sizzling Vegas heat.  
  
It was a time from the past; an invitation he had never  
regretted making, despite Sara's wholehearted fear of  
heights. Their hands had been clasped together tightly  
with each twist and turn of the roller-coaster. Sara had  
closed her eyes tightly against seeing the world stretch  
further away from her inch by inch only to return at an  
almighty pace, geared by the force of gravity. Grissom  
had felt the fear coursing through her and his hand had  
reached out to grasp her death grip on the seat, sliding  
beneath them to offer comfort and reassurance. Her hand  
had at first gripped his in a tight embrace before settling  
in the gentle caress of his large, slightly calloused hand,  
their fingers entwining in mutual quiescence. He had  
looked across at her face as their hands had settled,  
forgetting the enjoyment of the ride, which had been  
replaced by something else; something much more  
important which left him fully content and whole.  
  
Grissom sighed and put down the photograph. It dawned  
on him that he had been caught up the in the memories  
much longer than he intended.   
  
Jogging down the stairs, he wondered how the time could  
have passed so quickly. He was so busy watching his feet  
pound down firmly on each step in order not to not miss  
one that he almost collided with the person coming up the  
stairs.  
  
"Sorry..." Grissom began apologising to the person,  
breaking off when he saw who it was. "Sara, what are  
you doing?"  
  
"Going home. Isn't that why you drove me here?" Sara  
gave him a quizzical smile, not understanding the reason  
for the look of shock on his face.  
  
"But I was coming down to get you," Grissom explained.  
  
"Well, I would love to say that I waited, but you know  
that's not in my nature." Sara gave him a flippant smile  
over her shoulder as she continued her arduous trek up the  
six flights of stairs.  
  
"I thought the tablets had knocked you out." Grissom  
frowned, wondering how she had come to so quickly.   
  
"Obviously not. I'm awake... sorta."  
  
"Let me give you a hand."  
  
Sara was tempted to refuse, but the thought of all those  
stairs still ahead of her caused her to have second  
thoughts. The few stairs that she had already navigated  
had her head swimming. All she wanted to do was sink  
down on the stairs and sleep.  
  
Grissom came around to her right side and slid his arm  
around her waist. Sara's right arm settled easily against  
his body and her head dropped against his shoulder as she  
gratefully accepted his assistance. Each step she took felt  
as if her shoes had been filled with cement, the energy she  
had found upon waking in the car dissipating like melting  
ice. The couple of sets of stairs to her apartment took on  
the proportions of Mount Everest, the summit out of reach  
in her unfit condition.  
  
"I need to rest a moment," Sara whispered faintly, her  
breathing laboured.  
  
"Sara, are you okay?"   
  
Grissom's concerned voice drifted through the heavy fog  
that was clouding her mind.  
  
"I'm fine," Sara said, tiredly, the words spoken to  
reassure herself as well as Grissom. The last time she  
had felt so devoid of strength was when she had been  
struck down by a severe strain of the Hong Kong 'flu back  
in San Francisco. "Just need to... uh... rest a moment."  
  
Grissom took in her tired features and the sudden loss of  
colour to her face. Without warning and before he had a  
chance to even think about the consequences of his  
actions, Grissom scooped her up into his arms, rescuing  
Sara from slowly sinking to the bare, cold concrete stairs.  
  
"What are you doing?" Sara yelped, the firm arms  
capturing her by surprise.  
  
"Carrying you home." Grissom simply stated the obvious.   
"Although, if you keep twisting around so much,  
Newton's laws of gravity may come into play before we  
make it there."  
  
Her movements stilled instantly, suddenly comprehending  
the danger of free-fall to them both. Sara chided herself  
for being so obstinate and risking Grissom's safety with  
her stubbornness. She allowed herself to settle into his  
strong, surprisingly well-muscled arms, her head dropping  
against the curve in his shoulder. As the wonders of  
medicine once again brought her under their spell, a  
distant thought struck her: his shoulder seemed to be  
perfectly contoured to support her head comfortably.   
  
Grissom gave a small smile of triumph as he noted the  
change in the rhythm of Sara's breathing. It was only a  
few more steps and he would be on the third floor landing.   
Carrying Sara securely in his arms, he made his way  
carefully to the landing. He was relieved when he made  
it to the last stair, his cargo still safe from harm.   
  
Entering her apartment, he made his way down the narrow  
hallway to the left of the door. It ran behind the kitchen  
gallery. The hallway opened into a room barely big  
enough for the queen size bed occupying the middle of the  
room. A cream-gold jacquard quilt cover adorned the  
bed, the colour lightening the headiness of the deep  
burgundy walls that shrouded the room.   
  
Grissom moved into the room and struggled to maintain  
his balance as his foot caught on the cream floor runner  
that was beside the bed. His bowed legs struggled to  
counteract the way his torso swung back and forth like a  
pendulum. The added weight of Sara in his arms made it  
almost impossible to keep upright. To save both of them  
from falling to the floor, Grissom allowed himself to fall  
backwards onto the bed.   
  
*Crunch.* Grissom gasped as his head connected with  
the hard, teak headboard. He wanted to grab the spot with  
his hands, to put pressure on the spot as the darts of pain  
danced across his eyes. Instead, he swallowed and bit  
down on his lip to stop the temptation to let out any  
sound. A muffled yelp still managed to escape his lips as  
he maneuvered Sara into the centre of the bed.   
  
"Grissom?" Sara looked at him from heavily hooded  
eyelids.  
  
"It's okay, Sara."  
  
"What happened?" She rolled onto her side to look up at  
him, her eyes confused to find him on the bed beside her.   
  
  
"Nothing that a couple of Tylenol won't fix," Grissom  
reassured her softly.  
  
"Can't mix my meds," Sara muttered, trying to fight to  
keep her eyes open.  
  
"Nice of you to remember that now," Grissom said with  
a chuckle, instantly regretting it as the sound reverberated  
through his head. Dropping a kiss on the top of her head,  
he suggested, "Why don't you go to sleep?" Grissom was  
pleased to see that her eyes had already closed before he  
finished his words, a small smile on her face.   
  
He smoothed her hair away from her face, noting that her  
soft, dark-brown hair was curling at the ends. The damp  
Vegas air had won the war today. Grissom found the  
spirals tempting to wrap around his finger. But he  
resisted.   
  
Instead, he looked around the relatively small room.   
Sunlight was breaking through the small break in the  
middle of the heavy, velvet curtains, the colour a perfect  
match to the quilt cover. Despite the smallness of the  
room, Sara had managed to also squeeze into one corner  
a bureau of drawers. A silver brush set was laid out on  
smooth teak surface beside a small, silver teddy bear  
money box. Grissom smiled as he saw that Sara's name  
was engraved in the small name plate on the front. It was  
obviously a childhood treasure.   
  
In the opposite corner sat an old-fashioned, well worn  
rocking chair. A crocheted blanket was folded on the seat.   
Grissom pushed himself up gently from the bed, moving  
slowly so as to not disturb Sara. He walked over to the  
rocking chair and picked up the blanket. Shaking it out,  
he gently dropped it over Sara's sleeping form.   
  
Reassured that she was sleeping soundly, Grissom walked  
down the hallway to the kitchen. He was surprised to find  
that Sara used a kettle on a gas stove, rather than an  
electric. It took him three tries to get the front burner  
alight. He shook his head, knowing that he could get a  
bunsen burner going faster than Sara's gas stove.   
  
Waiting for the water to boil, Grissom found his eyes  
wandering around the room. The room was the exact  
opposite of his spacious townhouse. Her house looked  
lived in, despite the hours she spent at the CSI labs.   
Photos were perched on most surfaces. He looked at each  
one, getting a deeper glimpse into the personal life of  
Sara.   
  
Grissom assumed that the man and woman on either side  
of Sara, their arms hooking around her narrow waist, were  
her parents. He had never met them. But the familiarity  
in the features on the elder woman's face gave him an  
idea of what Sara would look like when she was her  
mother's age.   
Another photo took him by surprise. Sara was standing  
beside a young woman who's features resembled Sara's  
almost perfectly and looked to be about the same age.  
  
"Twins?" Grissom thought. He dismissed the idea. Sara  
had told him that she was an only child. But a twinge of  
curiosity flamed in his sub-conscious. Another  
photograph sat beside it. Sara and the girl were both  
dressed in Harvard sweaters. The other girl was as blonde  
and blue-eyed as Sara was dark and Sara towered over her  
small, petite friend. Both of these showed Grissom  
another side to Sara, one he hadn't been privy to and one  
that Sara had kept to herself.   
  
Grissom found himself wondering why Sara had shut him  
out of this part of her life. The photographs had been  
taken at a time when they had been together. It made him  
wonder what else she hadn't told him.  
  
The whistle of the kettle broke through his thoughts. He  
went through the motions of making his coffee. The last  
fourteen hours were weighing heavily on him, and he  
knew that he needed to talk to Sara. He carried his coffee  
mug back into her bedroom. Easing his weary body into  
the rocking chair, Grissom watched Sara sleep as he  
sipped his coffee. His eyes grew heavy, and the coffee  
mug was only half empty when they finally slipped  
closed.  
  
"Nooooo!"  
  
End Part 12/? 


	13. Chapter 13

Part 13/13  
  
See Part 1 for disclaimers  
  
Author's Intro Notes: This chapter is rather heavy, but it is  
also the final one for Inequity. Thanks to everyone who has  
reviewed. It always pleases me to know that someone is  
enjoying what I'm writing. This was my first story in this  
fandom and I didn't expect it to take over twelve months to  
complete. For that, I must also apologise to the readers.   
  
And a final, big thank you to Alison (Vigirl) for all the time  
and effort she put into editing. It was wonderful to get the  
feedback on what works and what could make the story  
better.  
  
Previous parts may be found at  
  
  
Part 13  
  
The scream jolted Grissom out of his slumber. Lukewarm  
coffee spilled over the lip of the mug as he was jerked awake  
in shock. He ignored the damage to his pants, more  
concerned about Sara. The deep-set agony contained in her  
scream pierced his heart.   
  
Placing the mug down on the polished floorboards, he  
quickly moved to Sara's side. Grissom knelt down on the  
floor so that he would not exacerbate the spine-chilling fear  
that held Sara in its grasp. He tentatively reached out to give  
her shoulder a gentle shake.  
  
"Sara... wake up. Sara!"  
  
Morbid fear filled her eyes when she initially opened them.   
Within a moment, it was replaced with relief. "Grissom?"   
  
"Yeah. It's me." Grissom smiled down at her. He raised his  
eyebrows, a silent question in his eyes. "You okay?"  
  
"I am now." Sara unsuccessfully tried to push herself up into  
a sitting position in the bed  
  
Grissom sat down on the bed beside her and gently eased her  
up. He left his arm comfortably around her shoulders. Sara  
rested her body against his solid mass, taking quiet  
reassurance from the warmth and security she felt within his  
embrace.  
  
"I thought you would've gone home," Sara said quietly,  
turning her head towards him as she spoke.  
  
Grissom shook his head, a smile twitching at the corners of  
his mouth. "No. I wouldn't leave you." To himself he  
added, "to face your demons alone."   
  
Sara shook her head. Her brain felt as if it had been filled  
with cotton-wool, but she also could have sworn that  
Grissom had said he wouldn't leave her; it must be the drugs.  
  
"It's the tablets." Grissom unwittingly confirmed her  
suspicions, not realising the full extent of her thoughts. He  
had merely interpreted the clouded expression in her eyes.   
"Sara, you forgot to tell the doctors about your  
antihistamines. You don't normally make that mistake. Why  
this time?"  
  
"I wasn't thinking. I wanted to get out of the hospital, to  
remove the mem..." Sara broke off and looked down at her  
plaster-encased arm. She had said too much. Sara knew that  
Grissom wasn't going to leave it alone. Maybe it was time  
to share her fears, her past - to give up a part of herself rather  
than have the pain eat away at her instead.   
  
"Have you ever talked about it?" Grissom took the  
opportunity to finally broach the subject that had been so  
difficult since Tom Adler's call the previous afternoon.   
Gently resting his chin on top of her head, he suggested,   
"Why don't you tell me about your nightmares? Those  
memories you don't want to remember."  
  
"It was a long time ago," Sara said, her voice defeated. Her  
fingers fiddled with the edge of the crocheted blanket.  
  
"It may be a long time ago, but obviously you are still  
suffering its effects." Grissom reminded her softly. He didn't  
want her to back out of telling him when he felt she was so  
close. "Who was it?" He ran a hand lightly over her dark  
hair, trying to ease her nervousness. Grissom hoped that his  
actions wouldn't frighten Sara. He needed to know the  
events that weighed down so heavily on her, so many years  
into the future. It was the only way he would be able to help  
her.  
  
"A friend. She was murdered by her boyfriend." Her voice  
was flat, devoid of the heavy emotion that filled her eyes.  
  
"Was he caught?" Grissom knew that this revelation was  
going to be fairly brutal and he worried as to the exact nature  
of Sara's involvement.   
  
"Yes and no." Her mouth twisted as she remembered back  
to the day the man who had been responsible had been  
sentenced. A smile had been fixed on his face as the judge  
declared the sentence, his eyes telling her that he had won.   
Not only had he beaten the system, he had taken her friend  
away from her.  
  
"That's ambiguous." Grissom lifted his eyebrows in surprise.   
Sara normally saw things in black and white. There was no  
halfway measures about her, including her sense of justice.  
  
His words brought Sara back to the present. "It was  
inequitable justice." A spark of the Sara he knew shone  
through. She had straightened her back, pulling away from  
him slightly as she said the words with conviction.   
  
"Tell me," Grissom encouraged quietly, his voice soft and  
barely audible as he whispered the words beside her ear.  
  
"Naomi and I met at Harvard." Sara remembered the day the  
two of them met. They had been unlikely friends through  
their very different social experiences, yet they had gravitated  
towards each other. While opposites in so many ways, they  
had found many levels on which they had commonality - an  
understanding that had been borne of true friendship.   
  
"We shared a dorm and hit it off immediately. She taught me  
how to enjoy life - she showed me a different life to what I'd  
always been used to. Naomi was one of those students who  
really didn't need to study to get outstanding grades. And  
she was pretty. She had the choice of all the guys she could  
want and tended to play the field, never settling down with  
one for too long. But then in our final year, there was Matt.   
He was the one thorn in our friendship. I couldn't stand him  
and Naomi adored the guy." Sara stopped, lost in the past -  
the ghosts rising from their graves to haunt her during her  
waking hours.   
  
"What happened?" Grissom prompted, still gently stroking  
her hair.   
  
Sara relaxed under his touch, the action reminding her of her  
mother's hand when she had suffered from nightmares as a  
young child. She leaned back into his chest, slipping further  
down on the silky, jacquard quilt cover.  
  
"After a few months, Naomi moved into his house. That was  
when the abuse really started. He controlled who she was  
seeing and when. It wasn't long before she was beginning to  
miss classes. When she did attend, she wasn't the vibrant  
friend I'd always known." Sara's voice wavered as she  
relayed the events that had led up to her friend's death. "I  
tried to keep in touch, but it was virtually impossible. Matt  
seemed to always know when I was visiting and make sure  
she couldn't see me. We spoke on the phone when we could,  
but that was all. And I missed her most important call. The  
call that would have saved her life."  
  
Grissom waited as she stopped talking for a couple of  
minutes. He held her. She was struggling to get her  
emotions under control, to keep the tears that filled her eyes  
at bay. When he felt that Sara was able to continue, he  
prompted, "What call was that?"   
  
"She left a message at my dorm the night she was killed. I  
was at a party and didn't get home until late." Sara shook her  
head, brushing away the tears with the back of her hand. "By  
that time it was too late. If only I'd been there, I could have  
stopped it."  
  
"Could you?" Grissom asked, his hand searching his pockets  
blindly for a handkerchief.  
  
"What do you mean?" Sara twisted her head to look up at  
him. "Of course, I could. I would have got her out of the  
danger, out of his grasp."  
  
"Why do you think you could do something that so many  
friends and relatives of other victims are unable to do?"  
Grissom asked as he finally pulled the elusive piece of cloth  
out of his pocket.  
  
"Because I was her friend. She trusted me." Sara broke off  
again as she thought about the powerful words she had just  
said.  
  
Trust. It was something that they had given each other  
implicitly. Sara thought about the people in her life, those  
whom she trusted with her secrets. After Naomi, she had cut  
herself off from everyone emotionally. Even with Grissom,  
she had held back. She had not allowed him into every  
corner of her life, refusing to risk losing a friend again. It  
dawned on her that today she had to reassess that decision of  
long ago.   
  
The arms around her were strong. The hand that ran over her  
hair gentle and reassuring. The soft rise and fall of her body  
against his own comforted her. It was time to trust again.   
  
Sara took a deep breath and continued, "she rang me that  
night. Wanted my help. Except I wasn't there to answer her  
call. By the time I got to her, it was too late. He'd stabbed  
her and left her to die in her own blood." Sara remembered  
the blood. Blood that didn't seem to stop. It seemed like a  
river flowed from her friend. The carpet around her was  
discoloured and spongy with its sticky mass. Frantically Sara  
tried to stop the blood, but there was so much, so many cut  
that the viscous fluid flowed from.  
  
Sara shuddered as she remembered her frantic attempts to  
save her friend's life.   
  
"The problem was, she didn't die. But she was dead to  
everyone around her. He stole her soul and left an empty  
shell in its place. Except the shell breathed. So the law said  
it wasn't murder or manslaughter. It was inflicting grievous  
bodily harm. For that, he was given five years jail. He got  
out after three years - apparently for good behaviour. It's  
inequitable justice."   
  
The tears that had been threatening finally began to fall.   
They rolled down her face in jagged rivulets of pain.   
Grissom handed her the handkerchief he had found not long  
ago.   
  
"And for how many years have you been punishing  
yourself?" Grissom asked, his hand stilling on her head. He  
turned her head to face him with a gentle finger against her  
chin. "When are you going to give yourself time out for  
good behaviour? Sara, you need to forgive yourself or you're  
going to lose control. You can't compromise your integrity  
or your safety because of the past. You have to learn to  
forgive yourself, Sara. No one else is blaming you for what  
happened to your friend."  
  
"I am," Sara told him stubbornly. "I should have recognised  
the signs. They were all there. If I'd paid attention and  
wasn't having so much fun with my other friends, I could  
have prevented it from happening." Sara hit the mattress on  
the bed in frustration. "While she was suffering abuse at  
Matt's hands, there I was dancing away at parties, going out  
to movies, enjoying life without my best friend who had been  
my constant companion for three years."   
  
"It's also easy to blame yourself in retrospect," Grissom said.   
"Sara, you were young. There's no way to know whether it  
would have worked out differently if you had answered the  
call."  
  
"I would have gone to their house earlier, not as late as I did.   
I wouldn't have tripped over her dead body in the dark. All  
her life had been drained out of her. But not enough to kill  
her."  
  
Grissom's eyes widened as he realised that Sara had placed  
herself in danger. If Matt had still been there when she  
arrived at the scene... He shuddered to think what might have  
happened. "You could have also ended up a victim, been on  
that floor with your friend." The words brought him back to  
the events of today. Sara covered in the blood matter,  
huddled on the ground.  
  
"But I didn't. I wasn't."  
  
"No, you weren't. And I want to make sure that you keep it  
that way. Sara, last night was too close. When that gunshot  
was fired, I thought you had been hurt...I thought that you  
were dead. I don't ever want to feel that fear again."  
  
"I didn't put myself in danger," Sara said, defensively.  
  
"I'm not saying you did," Grissom corrected her. "I'm trying  
to tell you how I felt. I could have lost you tonight, Sara. It  
scared me." The words were rushed as if they had been sent  
on gale force winds.   
  
"Really?" Sara was surprised. Her eyes slowly rose to meet  
his, the intensity of his fear clearly visible in their depths.   
She slowly admitted her own fear. It only confirmed to her  
the mutual trust they had with each other at this moment. "So  
was I. I never want to be on the wrong end of a gun like that  
again."  
  
Sara felt amazed that it had been so easy to say the words.   
All the years she had bottled her emotions inside herself.   
Now that she had told Grissom about Naomi, there was only  
a sense of relief at having shared the burden of guilt. Despite  
what Grissom said, whether rightly or wrongly, she would  
always feel that she was partly responsible.   
  
"Sara, I don't want you to be in that sort of situation again.   
Tonight was an error on the part on the officers at the scene,  
but the way you react to some cases, you put yourself in the  
place of the victim. In doing so, you are putting yourself at  
risk and the others around you. You need to learn to distance  
yourself. Don't allow your personal grief to cloud a case."  
  
"It's not always that easy. If we don't speak for the victim,  
victims like Pamela Adler and Naomi, who will?"  
  
"Evidence, us and time."  
  
"But sometimes we don't always have time," Sara reminded  
him.   
  
"We can't compromise a case or ourselves by our emotions.   
But we can use that to bring about an end," Grissom  
reassured her. His many years of experience had taught him  
that. Now he needed to teach Sara the same.  
  
"I don't see how."   
  
"Through time and experience.... it will show the evidence."  
  
"Grissom, do you always have to be so cryptic?"  
  
"Only when you're around. Sara, seriously, time will prove  
to you how you can utilise your strong sense of justice to  
your advantage."  
  
"I thought I was."  
  
"No. But you do seriously compromise your health by  
allowing your cases to be your sustenance. It's unhealthy to  
not only your physical well-being, but also psychologically."  
  
"So now you want me to see a shrink?"  
  
"Sara, stop putting words in my mouth."  
  
"It's such a nice mouth too..." she added, her fingers reaching  
up to trail along its edges.  
  
"Don't change the subject. No, I'm not saying that you need  
a psychologist, but I want you to think about the fact that you  
have a family. We may not be your blood relatives, but  
we're always there for you. I'm always here for you... all  
you need to do is ask."  
  
Sara gently smiled at him. The words meant a lot to her. It  
was important to her that she had been accepted as part of the  
family. But it was his final ones that truly struck a chord in  
her heart... he would always be there for her.  
  
She ran her hand carefully over his, feeling that she owed  
him an explanation.  
  
"I walk through cemeteries."  
  
Grissom looked at Sara, confusion marring his face. He  
expressed his incomprehension at her statement. "What?"  
  
"You asked me what I do to relax. I walk through  
cemeteries." Sara gave him a grin. Sometime she got a kick  
out of throwing him off balance.   
  
While he understood intimately the intricacies of  
entomology, the human psyche left him confused. Sara had  
a knack of doing it to him more than most. This was not the  
first time that he had been left speechless by one of her  
abstruse statements.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"It gives me a sense of balance to the grim loss of life we see  
daily; the damage some people will inflict on the innocent.   
In a cemetery, there are families linked through generations.   
Lives may be lost through disease or tragedy, but the majority  
reach their end naturally. Lives reunited through death; a  
patchwork of history carved into stone. It reminds me that  
there's more out there than the vicious criminals that create  
the havoc we investigate."  
  
Grissom smiled. When she had mentioned the word  
'cemetery', he had immediately suspected a more gruesome  
reason for her walks. It was reassuring to know that his  
assumption was incorrect. As he would often remember a  
teacher mentioning to him - don't assume, it makes an ass  
out of you and me.  
  
"Oh, I nearly forgot, Catherine gave me this." Grissom  
pulled the watch out of his pocket, passing it over to her.   
  
Sara fingered the watch, a smile flittering across her face. "I  
don't need it anymore."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because you've reminded me tonight of all the things this  
watch was meant to remind me of."   
  
Grissom wasn't sure what she meant by this statement, but  
let it flow by. Obviously his words had had some effect and  
he hoped that she would now take heed of what he had said.   
Sara allowed the watch to fall to the quilt cover and reached  
over to capture his hand within hers, tracing lightly over the  
lines that time had shaped and weathered. She rested  
comfortably on his chest, his other arm gently resting on her  
back. It wasn't long before they both were drawn back into  
the comforting web of sleep, content in the fact that home  
was where the heart is.   
  
The End.  
  
Author Notes:   
  
Too Tough to Die still leaves me pondering each time I  
watch the show and this story was an attempt to fill in some  
of the gaps. We don't know about Sara's past and I am a  
firm believer that Sara herself did not suffer any abuse, yet  
she had close contact with it. We also have from the CBS  
website that during her years in Harvard, she partied,  
something she had never done before. I thought that there  
had to be a reason why she began and also why she stopped  
that partying. Inequity was my answer. It took a lot longer  
to get to the end, to provide the scenario that I'd developed  
in my mind from what I'd seen in the show and what had  
been written about Sara's past. I hope you enjoyed the ride.  
  
I drew the watch into the story because I could never  
understand why Sara would wear a watch that loose,  
particularly since the nature of her job requires preciseness.   
Interestingly, the watch I was referring to disappeared in  
Season 2, so that's why it disappeared in this story as well.  
  
Finally, I wasn't intending to bring a case file into this story,  
but it just happened. It is a sad scenario that there is always  
the possibility when you are dealing with a psychiatric illness  
that lives may be lost. However, this is no way reflects the  
majority of people who deal with their disease effectively and  
are able to function in society. 


End file.
